


Tell Mama

by TrillianSwan



Series: The Mamaverse [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Arielle is ride or die, Battle Magic, Canon Compliant, Explicit Language, F/M, Fillory (The Magicians), Fluff, Implied/Referenced Sex, It’s like if the Mosaic was in Starr’s Hollow, M/M, Mosaic, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2020-02-28 06:59:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 41
Words: 168,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18751351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrillianSwan/pseuds/TrillianSwan
Summary: A Queliot Mosaic fic! Canon-compliant for the montage, and fills out all the details of what we were shown in 3x05, and so much more-- danger and battles,  weddings and funerals, Movie Nights and barn dances, and time travel and magic.It’s also the love story of Quentin and Arielle, and the profound friendship of Eliot & Arielle, and the way these three people grew stronger, together, and made a family with their son, Teddy.And it’s a story of the people that made their life beautiful-- like Mama, the tavern owner who takes them under her wing-- how our Magicians impacted the lives of everyone around them, and how the kind people of the Village helped our boys to heal, and grow.But never fear, this is a Queliot story. And the darkest days are followed by a sunrise, always. This is their happy ending. Peaches and plums, motherfuckers. We make our own rules in the face of the chaos of the gods.





	1. Boys At The Mosaic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hot gossip of the Village are the two men who have taken up the Mosaic puzzle...

Mama Kasia turned back to the bar carrying a tray of empty tankards. “Just make sure he gets home in one piece,” she said over her shoulder to the golden retriever sitting at the little table, being petted aggressively between the ears by a drunk Fillorian blacksmith.

“He’s a bit handsy,” the dog complained with a slight whine.

“As you knew when he ordered the last round!” she called out in sing-song, making it clear she was not part of this problem anymore. The dog could easily move out of arm’s reach if he was really bothered.

Mama Kasia was “older than I’d like to tell you about,” as she often said-- just turned 50, in fact-- a tall Fillorian woman with a round belly and a wide bosom well suited for a hug when you were at your most low. She wasn’t anyone’s mother, as fate would have it, as she had lost her husband many years ago, before they could have any children. She had lost interest in love after that-- for herself, at any rate. She opened the tavern and took in the whole town as her family, someone to share a bawdy joke or a drunken song with when you were up, and someone to bring your troubles to when you were down. She became Mama.  

Mama came back behind the bar and deposited the empty tankards. Berengar was just slipping onto one of the larger barstools and balancing with his giant paws on the bar.

“Barry! Good to see you, hon, what’ll it be?”

“Mama,” the bear nodded in greeting. “Beer please.” Mama drew him a bowl and set it on the bar in front of him.

“So what’s the news, Barry? I feel like I haven’t seen the sun in days.” The tavern had been quite busy lately as the main harvest had ended and many of the locals had more free time, and she was feeling out of step with life in their little village.

“Two boys up there t’the Mosaic,” Barry mumbled as he slurped his beer from the bowl in his paws.

“Whaddya mean? _Inside?”_

The bear nodded. Mama absentmindedly wiped up the beer spittle this caused his snout to toss on the bar.

“I thought that place was warded, no one could go in that yard,” she said.

Berengar shrugged his massive shoulders. “Dunno. Thought so too. Biddy says they just walked right in.”

Ol’ Biddy had a name, but no one used it. She was a 70-year-old bird-like woman, skinny and short, and she tended to peck around everyone’s business. Mama never saw her at the tavern, though on many an afternoon she had gone to Biddy’s for tea and saw her slip in liquid from a flask, which she claimed was _medicinal._ The medicine smelled like brandy, but it worked a wonder on her, turning her eyes bright and making her chatty with gossip.

And if Mama had a specialty, it was gossip. Collecting it, that is, but rarely spreading it. If you had a secret, she would keep it. But if you had a secret anyone else knew, she probably already knew it.

“So what has Biddy heard, then?” she prodded Barry as she drew herself a pint.

“Not heard. Seen. Found ‘em up there. Oh hey, Cleve,” he muttered to the Fillorian who was pulling up a barstool.

“You talkin’ about the boys up t’the Mosaic?” Cleve asked excitedly. He was a slight man, middle aged, and wound tight with energy, but a few pints would loosen him up. Too loose and he tended to sing loudly. Mama made a mental note to cut him off before too long.

“When you say boys, what’re we talking about here?” Mama drew a pint for Cleve and slid it over to him.

“Young men, in their twenties, I’d guess,” Cleve said as he accepted the tankard.

 _So, boys to these two older men, but not helpless._ Mama felt the worry slip for two abandoned children and began to tick off in her mind the single young people of the village. “Where are they from? Do we know their families?”

“Dunno, Biddy said they were a bit cagey. ‘From out of town,’ they said. But they didn’t have any packs or travel bags or anything. They might have _starved_ if it weren’t for Biddy.” He gulped at his drink.

“When did all this happen?”

“Four days ago. So,” Cleve’s eyes were beginning to sparkle as he launched into the story. “Biddy is walking up the River Road by the Mosaic and then she’s like ‘By Ember’s hooves!’” Cleve mimicked her reedy voice, “because the lanterns were lit at the Mosaic! ” He paused to let this wonder sink in with the growing crowd. The golden retriever, Wicklet, had padded over, leaving his friend asleep at their table, and two more Fillorians had joined them as well, Gana and her husband Gish.

 _Apparently they found a sitter for the night to watch the girls,_ Mama thought.

“Biddy was out walking at night?” Wicklet asked.

“I think yer missin’ the point there, pup,” Cleve replied, as Wicklet bristled at the term. “That anyone got in to light ‘em in the first place!”

“You already said there were boys in there,” Wicklet grumbled, but Cleve was getting a head of steam.

“So it was _morning,”_ Cleve glared at Wicklet, “and Biddy was up the River Road heading to check on the construction of New House, and she sees the lanterns! ‘By Ember’s hooves!’ she cries! And when she looks closer…”

Cleve leaned in for the reveal and everyone around couldn’t help but lean in as well, even though for the most part they knew what was coming next. Some had already heard it from Biddy.

“There are these two boys asleep, stretched out on the Mosaic floor, with half a pattern of tiles filled out beneath them! So she calls out”-- he did the voice again-- “‘Hey you boys! Howdja get in there?’ and they wake up and they’re all you know, like confused. At first she thought they didn’t know where they were, or maybe that they were slow. But the tall one-- there’s a tall one and a short one, see-- stood and his voice was clear and clever, she said, so they ain't slow.”

“Cleve, for Ember’s sake, I told you not to talk like that,” Mama chastised him sternly. “We are all the Children of the Gods and we all have our own gifts, and I’ve known plenty of people,” Mama narrowed her eyes at him, “who have more gifts than _you.”_

Cleve blushed. He didn’t like to disappoint Mama, no one did. And this was breaking up the rhythm of the best story he’d had in years. “So sorry, Mama,” he said and he hid his face with his mug for a moment, finishing off his pint.

“Well go on then, a voice clear and _ahem,_ clever…” Mama prodded him.

“I mean Biddy made a great point of this, you see, his voice, he sounded like a _king.”_

“You think they are from _Earth?”_ Mama’s eyes widened. She’d heard of children of Earth, of course, but never thought to see one.

“Dunno. They won’t _say,_ see, like real cagey like. Is that how children of Earth are, like sneaky types?”

“Think they’d come in all kinds,” Berengar said, “like anyone.”

“Well these two are cagey, at any rate,” Cleve continued. “So she’s asked ‘em how they got in there, see, and the tall one bows to Biddy and says, ‘Sorry, Madam, does this place belong to someone?’ But Biddy said, ‘No one’s been able to get in there, it’s warded.’ And she’s giving them the side eye, you know like she does when she thinks yer lyin’, and by this time the shorter one is on his feet too, and he says, ‘It wasn’t when we got here.’” He took a sip from his beer and Mama could picture him rehearsing this story before he arrived.  “‘And when was that, then?’ she asked ‘em, and he says, ‘Yesterday.’ And that’s when she looks around and sees they have no _bags,_ see, like they just walked up out of nowhere and fell asleep.”

“Maybe that’s what the wards do to children of Earth? Lets ‘em in and puts ‘em to sleep?” Gana wondered.

“No, no see, _there weren’t no more wards._ Because as Ol’ Biddy is talking to them, she keeps getting closer and closer and before she knew it _she had stepped right off the road and into the yard!”_ Cleve looked triumphant as he got to his first major plot twist.

There were some gasps to reward him. Gish leaned in. “You mean anyone can go in there now?” he asked in wonder.

Gana nudged him with a chuckle. “It’s a disgusting little hermit’s hut and some tiles in the dust. Did you want to go there?”

“Have done since I was a boy,” he said excitedly. “Always wondered what the tiles were for and who built it.”

“I never knew that!” Gana laughed.

“Well, you still don’t know everything about me, woman, and you’ve got years left to find out,” he smiled lovingly at her and leaned in for a kiss.

“Go on with your story, hon,” Mama said comfortingly to Cleve as she passed him a pint and patted his arm. He looked a bit pained that this was all getting away from him.

“Right, so, let’s see, she’s stepped into the yard--” Cleve struggled to find his place, “--right, and they have no bags, yeah? Did I say that part?”

“A few times, now, but that’s where you left off, yeah,” agreed Wicklet.

“Ok, so,” Cleve beamed a bit with the excitement of the next plot twist, “Biddy says, ‘Well how long you stayin’, then?’ and the boys look at each other like they don’t know the answer-- that’s cagey, right? And the short one says,” Cleve paused for dramatic effect, _“'We are on a quest.’”_

There were more gasps all around, even from those who already knew this, because the moment seemed to call for it. Cleve sat back straight and pushed his hands against the bar, reveling in the moment.

“That’s a _children of Earth_ thing, right, they do a lot of those!” said Gish in a hushed tone.

“Well, that’s what I’m sayin’, I think they _must be,_ right?” Cleve continued. “Cuz that’s how you can tell,”  he added conspiratorially.

“Did they say what the quest was?” prompted Mama.

“Well ayup, the short one went on to say they just had to do a puzzle with those tiles there and they’d be gone as soon as they solved it. But they had started right when they got there the day before and fell asleep working on it, see, that’s why they were asleep on the ground. The tall one said, ‘It seems it might be more difficult than we anticipated,’” Cleve imitated a grand accent, “and Biddy says, ‘Well if you’re on a quest, didn’t you bring anything for it, a _blanket_ at least?’ and they shook their heads and she’s getting real irritated, you know, like she gets when you’re being foolish, and she says, ‘You boys got any _food,_ for Ember’s sake?’ and they just look back at her all embarrassed and hungry-like. So she said to wait there and the short one said they would anyway, they really didn’t have a choice, but she was already turned to head back to the village, and she called back to 'em that they were too late for breakfast but she’d be back with lunch.” Cleve stopped to wet his dry mouth with beer.

“Ooh I can pick up from here,” Gana said, “D’ya mind if I take over?”

“Be my guest,” Cleve said, though Mama could see he was a little deflated that his moment had passed. “I really only know the meeting story if I’m honest.”

“And you told it really well, Cleve,” Gana reassured him, “and I know because I heard that story from Ol’ Biddy that very morning, and you got it just about word for word as she told me. I met her on the road here in town and she was in a right state. You know how she gets when she’s seen a problem and is determined to fix it.”

“And is also pissed off at the ‘idjit’ who caused it,” Wicklet said ruefully, having experienced this himself.

“Right, mad as hell and ready to repair all at once,” Gana said, “Love that woman. Anyway,” she continued, “She was dead set on getting together giveaways for these ‘dumb kids’ as she called them. Food, and blankets, anything anyone could spare. And she got so much-- someone even put in a silver mirror and shaving things, because the shorter one doesn’t carry a beard-- so from me she got a hand wagon to carry it all in, as it didn’t sound like your clothes would fit, Gish, and we’d already given our spare quilts to Nalie and Hund for New House.”

“Is that what happened to the wagon?” Gish said. “You gotta tell me these things, I had to lug all the firewood in in trips.”

“Sorry, I’ll go up tomorrow and see if they’re done with it.” She motioned for Mama to refill her tankard.

“By Ember, I wish I could go with you! But I have a lot of orders stacked up,” Gish sighed ruefully.

“Is that what all that fuss was about?” Mama said as she drew the tap. “I saw Biddy, oh one day this week when I managed to emerge from this place,” she set the mug in front of Gana, “but she was talking so fast I thought she was getting more giveaways for New House. I’d already given her some plates and cups for that and I was in a hurry for the market so I just threw her some guilders to get out of the conversation.”

“I heard someone had put in money, I guess that was you then,” Gana agreed. “You must have seen her that day too because it wasn’t lunchtime before she had gone all around the village to collect a whole wagon full of stuff to pull back up there. She put ribbons and a sign on it, you know how quick of a hand she is with that sort of thing, and marched herself back up the hill.”

“What did the sign say?” asked Wicklet.

 _“WELCOME,_ in nice big letters.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Wicklet sighed. “A wagon of welcome. That’s nice,” and he settled his snout on his paws.

Gana continued her story. “So she pulls it back up there and you know she’s pretty strong but she must have shown some strain because when she got in sight of the Mosaic the tall boy rose-- they were back down working on the puzzle-- and said, ‘Oh Madam, here!’ and did a thing with his hands and then _the wagon pulled itself the rest of the way into the yard!”_ It was Gana’s turn to beam with a plot twist.

“Magicians… _and_ a quest? That’s _got_ to be children of Earth, right?” Cleve exclaimed.

“Got to be,” Gish agreed.

“Still don’t know, as far as I know they are not answering questions about that or much of anything,” Gana said. “They made a big fuss over Biddy, thanking her and inviting her to sit and rest on their bench and fluttered all around her to make sure she was comfortable. She said they were very sweet,” Gana gave a side glance to Mama, “and _very_ handsome,” and she winked.

“But not staying?" Mama asked. "We’ve got some young folks around here who are starting to show some interest in getting married…”

“Well, I mean who knows, right? They have to solve this puzzle, it didn’t sound like they had very much to go on, I can’t remember what Biddy called it but it was like a vague sort of saying and they had to make that into a picture, or something. Anyway, they could have done it today or it might take ages, who knows?” Gana paused. “Although that might not be the issue. Biddy thinks they might be a couple.”

“She’s been around long enough to know the signs, I guess, but what were they?” Mama asked.

“Oh, the tall one tends to pet the young one, she said,” and Wicklet sighed approvingly from his stool. “Touches his hair a lot, and drapes an arm around his shoulders, that kind of thing,” Gana was getting a bit giddy with the gossip and the beer. “But the main clue Biddy said was the way the short one looks at the tall one, like he hung the moons.”

 _“Magicians on a quest,_ maybe he really did!” wondered Cleve. “We don’t know how they got there…” he trailed off in thought.

“Well, enough for me, Mama, off home now,” Berengar said, and swung off his stool. “Tab?”

“Sure hon,” Mama smiled. “If anyone’s good for it, it’s you. My best to Marty.”

Gana and Gish made their goodbyes shortly thereafter, Wicklet nudged his friend awake to take him home, and some hours later Mama took a singing Cleve by the shoulders and steered him out of the tavern.

 _Two boys up t’the Mosaic,_ she wondered to herself. Now what would become of that?

  
  
  



	2. A Grand Entrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot walks into a bar.

Mama was in the storeroom when she heard an eloquent voice ring out.

“Barkeep?”

As she rounded the corner into the tavern room, a tall handsome man nodded a slight bow to her with his hand on his heart. “Oh, pardon me, _Mistress_ Barkeep?” he corrected himself. 

“They call me Mama,” she said in a bored tone though inside she was brimming with excitement. _The Tall Boy! At last,_ she thought. No one stayed away from Mama’s for long. “Long walk from the Mosaic?” she asked nonchalantly.

His hazel eyes widened in surprise, but quickly narrowed in a smirk with the realization she was _that_ sort of tapster, the kind that knew all the Village’s news. He propped himself dramatically on a barstool. It was lunchtime, but she had few customers. The place was quiet and dark compared to the glare of the sun coming in the small front windows. He spread his jacket on an adjacent stool. It was Lunk’s old summer duster, Mama realized, but it had somehow been tailored to fit this boy’s narrower frame, and the fabric looked like new, and embroidery had been added in curly-qs along the cuffs and sleeves and lapels. _Magicians._

“Long enough that I am simply _parched_ , my dear.”

“I’ve got beer on tap and spirits if you don’t think it’s too early. Lunch is slim pickins but I’ve got cold sandwiches, if you need to balance out the drink.”

“May I?” the man said, as he motioned behind the bar.

“By all means, sir,” Mama grinned and bowed out of the way. She never let anyone behind the bar before, but this boy intrigued her. A grand presence emanated off of him, as if he owned every room he walked into.

“Oh, call me Eliot, please.” He made his way around the bar to the array of unlabeled decanters-- Mama knew which was which, why bother with labels?-- and picked up each one and sniffed the contents. He chose three and turned to the bar, brow furrowed in concentration. Two fingers of one, and one each of the two others went into a glass Mama put out for him. He moved his hands over the glass and with a small pop, a tiny blue flame danced across the top of the liquid. He smiled. “The moment of truth,” he proclaimed, as he raised the glass in salute to Mama, blew lightly on the flame to extinguish it, and took a sip. “Do you have lime? It needs lime,” he scowled softly. Mama began to turn to the storeroom but the young man put a hand on her arm. “Don’t trouble yourself, dear lady, this will certainly do.” He glided back to his stool, sipped his drink, and sighed with his eyes closed. “It’s been more than two weeks since I’ve had a decent cocktail, and my brain is so full of tiles I can’t remember what a decent cocktail tastes like, so let’s just say this is one.”

“What have you been drinking this fortnight?” Although by now she had heard.

Eliot considered before he answered. “A lovely wine selection donated by some lovely person in this lovely village,” he said diplomatically. “It’s one of the reasons I’m here today, in fact, I would like to thank everyone for their generosity. And do some trades. And then oh look! There’s a tavern!” He leaned into her as if to share a secret and grinned. “I can’t resist a tavern.”

“Trades, eh? And what have you got to trade that we didn’t give you because we thought you needed it?” She was a bit wary of this boy. Not just because he was a stranger that had dropped in from the sky for all she knew, but because he put on such a show. Look over here, his manner said, and never, ever look behind the mask. She wondered what he hid back there, and if it was anything for her to worry about.

“I have a few coins--”

“Those came from me.”

“Oh, I see. Well. To be spent, surely? And where else better than with you?”

“Anywhere else. Then I’m helping a friend in their business. Otherwise I’m just shuffling my old coins around and I wouldn’t have actually done any giveaway to the two young men who showed up lost on our doorstep, as a good Fillorian ought to do.”

“Hardly lost,” the man scoffed, unnerved.

Apparently his airs usually kept people from challenging him. Mama was not so easily won. And in fact she was steeling herself against the charms of this young man, his luscious curls that fell down to dance by his twinkling eyes, his broad shoulders and narrow waist, his long and graceful hands that held the glass. If she were twenty-five years younger, and if this man had any interest whatsoever in women, she might just let herself go fully weak in the knees. But she clearly wasn’t, and he clearly didn’t, and she hoped the shorter boy was getting some of that because to leave this man unattended would be a crying shame.

“We’ll get to that later,” Mama said, “But for now let’s talk trade. Can you do anything?”

“Why Mama, whatever are you suggesting?” he feigned shock, then grinned and winked.

“Oh, I bet you’re a right devil, and worth paying for,” she giggled, warming to him. For Ember’s sake she was only a mere mortal and not forever immune to his charms. “But I was thinking more along the lines of odd jobs--” Eliot’s eyebrows raised, “--no you know, handiwork--” he raised them higher, “O great Ember’s hooves, I mean like _work._ Look at your hands, have those hands ever done a day’s work?”

But in fact they seemed to be covered in new small cuts and scrapes, and red under the remnants of chalk. Not used to manual labor, but recently done some. _The tiles,_ she assumed.

“You sound like my father,” Eliot said ruefully. He looked around but no one else was nearby. “Well, I mean, keep your head down about it, but…” he leaned across the bar to her, “we can do a little magic if you need anything.”

“Don’t want the word spreading around the village that two Magicians have taken up a quest at the Mosaic? Son, you’re a little late for that.”

“Biddy told everyone about the wagon. Of course she did,” he sighed, and ran his hands through his hair.

“Well that and what you’ve done to that jacket, the embroidery is hardly low-profile, not that it matters really. Word to the wise, nothing stays secret around here for long. But it ain’t mean, everyone has good intentions. Which doesn’t mean them getting in your business is always a rainbow ride, sometimes there’s good reasons for secrets.”

“Yes, yes there is,” Eliot sighed and his eyes grew serious.

 _A lot more going on here than being stuck on a quest with your crush,_ Mama thought, which she still thought was likely from Biddy’s description. “Well,” she said, settling in on her stool across from him and lighting a hand-rolled cigarette. “All secrets are safe here with me.” She took a drag and passed the pouch with more of them in it, along with a match, over to her new friend. “Tell Mama.”

Eliot took one and lit it just with his fingers, somehow, dragged, and sighed.

They talked until dusk. He told her all about the quest he was on (though not why, Mama noted), how the puzzle was supposed to work, and how he missed his friends and his clothes and his own bed in a magical cottage in an undisclosed location. That was odd, but she sensed the edges of a taboo subject. He feigned disinterest in the topic as she had heard one of the rabbit spies do about his job right there on her bar. Not for her to know, For Official Reasons. There seemed to be a few topics under that heading, like what he was doing with his life before this, and she let Eliot steer her clear of them.

But he told her at great length about the wondrous Margo, how beautiful and fierce and well-dressed she was, and how he missed his girl terribly. How she always knew how to break the tension between him and Quentin when it built.

“Ah because she is your _girl,_ but she is not your _love_ , yeah? Quentin…” she sighed, “Quentin is why this quest is so hard on you, isn’t he?”

“No, I mean, he’s one of my two best friends--” his eyes widened in feigned innocence as if he had no idea what she meant by _his love_.

 _So it’s like that,_ Mama thought.

“--the other being Margo, of course--" he continued, "and in a lot of ways, it’s fun being out here with him. It’s like camping with the guys.”

“Which you have never done, I assume,” she said with a crook of a smile. He looked like he belonged in a palace, on the finest linens.

“Well, not since I was little. I got out of it as soon as I could. Hunting trips,” he shuddered, “with my dad and brothers. No, it’s not like that. But if I ever did just hit the road with a friend and stopped at a hut to stay--” they both broke up laughing, “Okay, okay, I wouldn’t do that either. But I’m here. And making it work. We cleaned out the hut and restuffed the mattress with new straw and made it up with all the nice quilts. The hut’s not-- okay, it is _horrible,_ but being with Q isn’t. And he needed this, to get away for awhile and work on something, he’s getting over a girl.” He waved his hand as if to say, _that is too long of a story._

“Oh, I see,” Mama said knowingly, but didn’t. She needed to meet this boy. Biddy was rarely wrong about these things. 

“But…” he trailed off, looking worried and running his hands through his hair in frustration. “This puzzle… Q wanted to give up almost immediately, I rather think this thing with Alice has left him feeling… like he’s gone from one impossible thing to another, like life is nothing but a string of impossible things. I tried to tell him, just one foot in front of the other, one tile and then another, but… It’s been over two weeks, we’ve done pattern after pattern, and we ran out of wine and I can’t find my flask and I just had to get out of there.” He sounded relieved to say it, like he’d been trying so hard to keep the whole thing together with string and sealing wax and needed to lay down the burden on Mama’s tavern floor, just for a moment.

Mama patted his hand on the table, and he took it in his and held it tight. “The beauty of all goddamn life,” he sighed. “I don’t know what it is but it’s not _math_ for Christ’s sake, and I’m glad he’s focused on it now, he’s finally in quest mode, but we’re going to forget what life even _is_ if we don’t pace ourselves or take the time to settle in and at least do it comfortably. He wouldn’t even come into town with me today, he won’t leave the yard, he’s back there working on the damn puzzle.”

“And solving the puzzle means…”

“It means we can go home, for one thing. And we will get a… prize, something we need back home,” a _For Official Reasons_ look passed through his eyes, “and that might mean we can fix everything and maybe he can get Alice back.” A flicker in his eyes-- a little pain, a little hope.

And then this would all be over and your pretense that this strange and difficult experience is _just fine_ , _totally normal_ just to be alone with him for awhile would end like a dream, Mama mused to herself. A tangled knot, and not one that would be untied tonight or anytime soon. She squeezed his hand. “You are doing the very best you can, honey, so that means it will all turn out right in the end.”

“You sound so sure…”

“Well I don’t know about the beauty of all life, but I’ve seen a lot and been through a lot and a man like you,” she gave his hand a final squeeze, “knows how to keep things together to get a job done. But tonight we live a little, yeah? C’mon.”

It was getting darker and she rose to light the lamps. Eliot rolled his shoulders and put on a fresh smile, then stood and with a motion of his hands, all the lamps blazed to life. Mama looked at him aghast, but Eliot shrugged a shoulder and grinned slyly. As more villagers filled the tavern, she took him by the arm and introduced him around as she took food and drink orders. He was able to give thanks to some folks and he charmed some new friends off their feet as he served, falling right in step with Mama’s rhythm as if he’d been there for years. _He sure can work a room,_ Mama noted.

 

“Mama, I must go, Q will be pissed I’m away so long. Shall I come by on the week’s end, then?”

She nodded, “At sunset, yeah?” They had made an agreement for Eliot to come and mix drinks with his special touch in trade for his tab. “And don’t forget your dinner I packed you,” she said, reaching for the satchel. “Bring Quentin next time.”

“If I can tear him away. Oh, it will be Studio 54, darling!” he raved as he kissed both her cheeks. She had no idea what that meant but hoped it meant he would be there at sunset. He hugged her tight. “Don’t be alarmed, dear, I bond fast. And you,” he said as he kissed her head and took the satchel, “are worth bonding to.”

She laughed and pushed him away playfully, and shook her head as her dear Eliot sauntered, tipsy, up the road. Her dear Eliot. How quickly she had changed her tune on him. What would become of that dear sweet boy?

 


	3. One Road Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin has a night out.

To tell the truth, Mama thought Eliot had been lying.  
  
But the soft hair, the puppy dog eyes, the gentle beauty of a young man who has no idea he’s beautiful and keeps trying to become invisible-- Eliot had not told a single lie, because that exact boy had walked in behind him at sunset on the night of week’s end. Eliot took his hand as they came through the door, as if to steel Quentin against a roomful of strangers, and led him to the bar, where Mama was on the stool side, cleaning it off.  
  
“Q, this is Mama. I’m not going to introduce _you_ because trust me, she knows all. Now, I recommend a hug, because hers are a wonder of the world and you could use one. _I must start my shift at my new job,_ ” he said in a low voice with a wink, as if such a thing had never happened before, and went off to go around the bar.  
  
Quentin looked sheepishly at her with eyes that said, _you don’t have to hug me just because he said so._ But Mama looked back at him in reply, _Never mind Eliot, what do_ you _want?_ And when their eyes met he relaxed a bit, her arms opened, and he sank into his first hug from Mama, a hug she would remember for the rest of her life.

  
Besides being pretty, Quentin turned out to be very clever, a little excitable about the figuring he was doing for the puzzle, and the opposite of Eliot in his sweet and open earnestness. He also seemed grateful to talk to someone other than Eliot.

Perhaps Eliot had heard all this before and Quentin was happy to tell someone new.

He didn’t mention Alice, and Mama didn’t bring it up. It could wait.

He asked a lot of questions, though, about Fillory, although he seemed to know more about this land than she did. But he had _For Official Reasons_ secrets too, and he steered away from politics or anything to do with what was going on in the wider world, which was fine with Mama, who couldn’t care less about such things unless the youth of the village were called up to war. He seemed to know Whitespire well, as if he had walked its halls, but he changed the subject when she asked when he had been there. “Oh, you know, word gets around,” he said with a wave of his hand that he must have picked up from Eliot. He wasn’t a good liar.

Neither of them had admitted to being children of Earth, although they acknowledged being Magicians, so they weren’t really fooling anyone.

Mama didn’t press. One thing she could sense was that these two boys were displaced from all they had known, and their carefully constructed identities were not as relevant here.

When Eliot brought drinks to their table— with Eliot there Mama could take some time to enjoy her tavern and get to know the new boy— Quentin was regaling her with a tale he knew from home, about battles up in the night sky amongst the stars, and Eliot scoffed gently, “Don’t let him bore you with his nerd stuff, Mama,” as he petted Quentin’s hair before returning to the bar.

Quentin looked a little sad, and Mama knew that the things that were once important to him were very far away, just as Eliot’s precious Prada was. And while they were from the same place— and time, perhaps, if she read Quentin’s accidental clue properly— they didn’t even have the same _nerd stuff_ in common.

Perhaps, perhaps… it would be good for them. Perhaps they needed to break away from the things that defined them where they were from, to get down to the core of themselves. Perhaps this might even be the beauty of all life, Mama mused, although she could not imagine how to make a Mosaic pattern out of that.

Though Quentin didn’t want to talk about where he was from, or how he knew so much about Whitespire and the new construction going on there-- and if time journeys were a part of it, it was clever of him not to want to reveal anything or learn too much, Mama thought-- he did ask after Biddy and gave his own thanks for the giveaways. Gana and Gish arrived and the Fillorian woman bustled over to see her new friend Quentin, whom she had met when she went to retrieve the wagon. Quentin stood and shook Gish’s hand and thanked them both for the loan, and asked where he might get another wagon to help them move tiles and things around their yard. The men moved off to another table to talk trade and Gana sat with Mama.

“Isn’t he _dreamy_?” Gana gushed. Quentin was so different than burly, barrel-chested Gish that Mama was surprised she felt that way, and raised her eyebrows. “Oh, not for me, of course, but I mean, I have _eyes_.” She leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “And Eliot does too, you can see him watching Quentin every second he’s not busy.”

“He’s not the only one.” Quentin watched Eliot too, Mama had noted, watched him swan around the room as if he was finally on familiar ground. This made Quentin’s eyes look sad, also, and he nervously tapped his sketchbook with his thumb when it happened. _Quest mode,_ Mama thought.

“Have you gotten out of them yet if they’re a couple?”

“Well…” Mama considered. “It seems it might be complicated.”

“Isn’t young love always complicated? Until they get old enough to realize they are making it complicated, and it doesn’t have to be.”

Mama smiled as their eyes met, both ladies remembering the kerfuffles of Gana’s romance of Gish before they finally tied the knot. He had promised himself to someone else, a match that pleased his parents because it would join two farms. Not that he didn’t find the girl bonny, but it had all seemed more like a foregone conclusion. Gana was six levels of angst over her secret crush on Gish and treated him disdainfully so as not to tip him off, while Gish thought his secret love hated him and he tried to focus on the bonny farmer’s daughter. It was all a mess, and that spring and summer had been full of drama, until Mama hired them both to organize her stockroom. Some things had been broken in the tension, but other things mended, when a heart-to-heart made Gish finally realize he really didn’t _want_ to be a farmer, and had a secret dream to apprentice at the mill and run it someday. With no obligation to become a more prosperous farmer, the bonny girl no longer had a hold on him, and once he had come clean with his (very understanding) parents, they encouraged him to follow his heart. It wasn’t long before Gish was taking a thank-you-for-helping-me-see-clearly walk in the woods with Gana, and not too long after that, a beautiful wedding picnic on the hill with the whole town in attendance, and the bride bedecked in ribbons which fluttered as they danced. Uncomplicated.

“Maybe you should tell him your story someday, Gana,” Mama said. “But I don’t think he’s ready to hear it yet.”

“Oh no, would it upset him?” Gana looked puzzled.

“No, he just has a lot on his mind now. It’s this quest. It’s like you said the other night, any pattern could be the one, and this journey of theirs would all be over. I think he feels a bit guilty whenever he’s not working on it, but that’s just my take,” she hastened to add, “I could be wrong.”

“When are you ever wrong, Mama?” Gana laughed, and Mama couldn’t help but think of the night she yelled at her new husband for some domestic error she could no longer remember and had locked him outside.

“Oh, there’s been a time or two, I assure you.” She rose and stretched. “I really should help Eliot, this place has filled up and he looks like he’s in the reeds.” She placed a loving hand on Gana’s shoulder. “And go easy on Quentin, I think he’s not too comfortable in crowds. Make him feel welcome and loved, that should help.” Gana patted her hand and Mama made her way to the bar.

She kept an eye on their table and Quentin did seem to enjoy his new friends’ company, shaking hands with Wicklet and laughing with Gish, but it didn’t last too long. After an hour or so, she watched him come up to the bar and lean in to talk to Eliot.

“I should go, I could probably get one more pattern done before you get off work tonight if I leave now,” the shorter boy said.

“But Q,” Eliot whined, “It’s our night off! And you said you would stay and get your mind off that damn puzzle.”

“That damn puzzle is our only way home, and this is not actually your life, El,” Quentin said in low tones, exasperated.

“This is the only life we have!” Eliot was flush with a bit of drink. “And I for one am going to enjoy it, wherever it is, so fuck off home if you want.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“See you at the hut, then.”

“See you at _home_ , you mean.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.” Eliot slammed a tankard on a tray just a bit too hard as Quentin walked away.

Mama caught Quentin at the door. “Are you okay to walk back by yourself? Do you know the way?”

“It’s one road leading out of the village, Mama, I’m not an idiot,” he snapped.

“Hey, hey, easy there. It’s just that it’s dark out now and this is the first time you’ve left the Mosaic.” She rubbed his arm while he looked at his shoes, angry and embarrassed. “I’m not the enemy here, hon,” she said softly, drawing closer. “And neither is Eliot.”

Quentin looked into her knowing eyes and smiled ruefully. “I know, I just-- it’s just--”

“I know, honey, you are in a very difficult spot right now. But you are loved, and more people love you every day. And that’s a real and true thing, Quentin, and not one to be taken lightly. I’m not taking a side,” she added as he looked pained, “and I know you will follow your heart and do what is best. I know a good heart when I see one, and _I see you_.”

He nearly flung himself into her arms and she held him tight. Oh, these boys. She had barely met them and she loved them both as if she’d known them all their lives.

And if this was a new life for them both, then maybe in a way, she had.

 

 

 


	4. Regrets, I've Had A Few

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot considers what he left behind.

Mama handed Eliot a tankard to dry and picked up another to wash. Eliot had suggested magic, and he did heat the sudsy water, but Mama liked to have this slow moment alone with him at the end of the night. Sometimes it was time for laughter and stories, and sometimes, like tonight, it was sharing a comfortable silence with a friend. The longer it took, the better, in her mind. She only got this once a week.

“So-- I’m married,” Eliot said matter-of-factly as he put the mug on the shelf with the others.

Mama stopped working on the slippery tankard and stared at him. “Now how is this the first time you’ve mentioned that?” She had noticed what looked like a wedding ring, but he wore other rings and nothing had ever been said about a marriage.

“It’s… it’s complicated.” He sighed. “She’s very loving, a little too trusting--”

Mama’s eyes widened visibly, and she tried to narrow them again before he noticed, and failed. Most people she knew had romances with men and women alike, but she had been sure he was one of those rare ones that only inclined to men.

“I know, I know, shocker,” he laughed. “It wasn’t my idea, I assure you. But it was… something that had to be done,” -- _For Official Reasons,_ his face said-- “and you know… I did it. But it turns out,” he smiled wryly, “I’m a terrible husband.” He dried his hands, sat on a stool, and began rolling cigarettes for them.

“We had a daughter, too, which is a whole other mess,” he continued. “Taken as a baby and magically returned as a teenager, _joy."_  But there wasn’t joy in his voice, just fatigue. “ _If_ she’s really ours, Fen swears she is but I remain skeptical.”

“Fen is your wife?” Mama asked, and Eliot nodded. “Mother knows her own daughter, I should think.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you. But Fen… she kinda flipped out after the baby was taken. She thought a log was her baby for Christ’s sake, it was very Twin Peaks there for awhile.” He took a drag and blew out smoke rings that looked like ovals with tiny wings, or ears.

Sometimes talking with these boys was a bit confusing.

“A boat trip, some cannibals, some catharsis, and it was feeling like maybe, _maybe,_ we could almost become a family… I don’t know. But we ended up at home, my real home-- anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, I was so glad to be back at that moment, back to a world that made more sense, somehow, and Q was there, and he was so cute and nerdy about this quest, his eyes lit all up while he was talking about it, I missed that…”

Mama had finished the dishes, and she pulled up a stool beside him and took a cigarette.

“I keep thinking about them, before we left home I sent them away to… a large city, not terribly safe. She’s a knife maker’s daughter,” Eliot hastened to add, “I’m sure she’ll be fine, and that girl, Fray, whoever she is, can take care of herself. And it was just going to be a short trip. Fen just… hasn’t been well, like I said, what with… everything that’s happened, and I…” His long fingers had begun to shake.

“Quentin isn’t the only one who needed to get away for awhile,” Mama said.

“Mama, _I ditched them,"_ Eliot corrected her, self-loathing in his voice. “What kind of man does that to his _family?_ I sent them away from me and then I ran away. And I kept telling myself it’s fine, it’s fine, let’s just go do this quest and oh look! It’s a cabin in the woods, an AirBnb with a stupid puzzle and we can just forget about everything! But _I can’t forget_ , Mama, it’s been four months and I don’t know what happened to them and I can’t _do_ anything, I can’t fix it, and _Margo_ is,” he shook his head as if to keep from tearing up, “ _was_ getting married on the day we left and that must be a horrible mess too because she sent a rabbit, and she’s trapped by that horrible bitch, and _I left her._ ” He turned away so Mama couldn’t see his face.

Mama put out her cigarette and went to him, gently took the cigarette from his hands, and stubbed it out. She put her arms around him and he sank into her chest.

“And I can’t talk to Q about this because he… it’s like he has this pool of sadness in his heart, and sometimes it’s very small, but if I pour my sadness into it, then it gets bigger. In him. And I can’t do that to him, I have to drain it, you know? I have to--” 

“For someone who pretends nothing can touch him, you sure carry everyone on your shoulders,” Mama said softly, holding him tight.

“They all deserve someone better than me, I fuck everything up,” he moaned forlornly.

“Now Eliot Waugh, I won’t hear any talk like that,” Mama said, lifting his chin so their eyes met. “I don’t know who you _think_ you are, but I see a man who steps up when no one else will, who gets a job done when it needs doing, who puts himself last after all of his friends, and who protects them fiercely.”

Eliot broke away from her eyes and shook his head.

“Did you know what this quest would be like when you left? That you couldn’t get home until it was solved?”

“No. In fact, I thought going through-- how we got here would take me to Margo, somehow. But I fucked that up too."

“Sounds like magic fucked _you_ on that one, honey. Like to give a piece of my mind to the fucker that made this quest, if I’m honest.”

Eliot gave a rueful chuckle. “I’d like to see that, actually. Put you and Margo on him and he’d be roasting on a spit.”

“Oh, I’d be a lot more creative than killing him.” She did the Margo “bitch move” (snap your fingers and jut out your chin) Eliot had taught her, and he laughed. She wondered about Margo being _trapped by that horrible bitch_ and had felt a momentary sense of alarm for the girl. But from Eliot’s description of Margo, whoever the horrible bitch was, she would surely come to regret tangling with her.

“All right,” she continued, rubbing his back, “it sounds like things have been bad, and maybe you’ve done some things that you wish you hadn’t, that’s just life, honey.” Once again Mama saw her hand snapping the lock on the door against her husband, her husband who would only live another week after that, and sighed. “I can’t pretend to know about this quest, but I gather it relates to time somehow, yeah? Time journeys and all that? No, don’t tell me,” she added as he looked alarmed. “I’m just sayin’, there’s a chance when you get back home that you’ll be back when you started, right? So maybe no matter how long this takes, you will still get a chance to do the right thing by Fen and Fray and Margo.”

“Well maybe...”

“You still think you’re taking your prize back home, yeah? To fix what was broken?” Mama asked, and Eliot nodded. “So it stands to reason that the quest will take you back there, somehow, in time for that fix to be useful, yeah?”

“Yeah, I guess so?” Eliot rubbed his face.

“Well, then, you have your answer,” Mama said, and pulled a handkerchief from her bosom and handed it to him. “You just need to keep working your puzzle and trust that everything will work out right. And in the meantime, you have plenty of time to give some thought to what being a good husband is, if that’s what you want to be.” She kissed his head. “Trust yourself, honey. You can do hard things.”

Eliot gave a quiet laugh. “I said that to Q, on our first day here. ‘We can do hard things.’”

“So you know I’m right.”

“Oh Mama, aren’t you always?” 

“More often than not,” she sighed, and hugged his shoulders. “Let’s go put out the lamps.”

 

 


	5. An Interlude from the Mosaic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin ponders their existence. Eliot gets drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I address a few oddities.

“Can I just say something?” Quentin broke a comfortable silence laying tiles with Eliot.

“By all means.”

“That guy that was with Arielle today--”

“Arielle…”

“Peach girl? Literally the only woman you met today?”

“Ah yes.” Eliot had spent a long afternoon of mild day drinking and a night with less mild drinking. “Peaches and plums. Seems like an inefficient way to sell a harvest, just walking around with a tiny basket. Maybe it’s enchanted… Hey look, can you just do those other colors and then I’ll fill in the reds? Less thinking for me. Less thinky, more drinky...” He reached behind him for the wineskin, took a drink, and passed it to Quentin, who demurred.

“Can’t have more drinky if I’m doing all the thinky,” he chuckled, and moved the colors he needed closer.

“You were speaking of the WWE wrestler that appeared on our doorstep?” Eliot prodded.

“Yeah, her ‘helper’, _Lunk_ , seriously, what the fuck was up with that? He was like chiseled out of stone or something,” Quentin said, exasperated.

“Jealous?”

“Of whom?”

Eliot didn’t know what to make of that question, so he changed the subject. “I thought he was gross. The way he just moved into frame, as it were, and swooped in and kissed her.”

“You thought it was gross he kissed a woman?” 

“No, it was gross how he was all like, ‘You have met two men! Quick, I must mark you as mine!’” Eliot said, doing a caveman voice for Lunk. “You didn’t notice that?”

“I did, I was just kind of distracted by-- It was a rather strange experience, wasn’t it? Having this beautiful girl we’ve never met before show up out of nowhere-- can you pass me that stack of yellows? thanks. For a second I was thinking of those stories about crones in the woods who enchant themselves to look like pretty girls to lure you to your doom-- and then BAM, equally out of nowhere, this insanely ripped dude appeared, and then all of a sudden they were putting on a show! It’s like, if you wanted to take out two Magicians who were stuck in the woods years before they were supposed to be there, this looks like the start of a good plan. ‘We’ll toss ‘em a pretty girl, see, and a pretty boy too! And then they’ll make out!” he said in a Ferengi voice. “Step 3, question mark, Step 4, profit! Heh heh heh!,’” he cackled. “But then, like, nothing happened, and you ate the fruit and it was fine--”

“Wait, is that why you didn’t eat the fruit?! What the fuck, Coldwater!” Eliot punched Quentin in the arm.

“I tried to stop you but you didn’t hear me! You’re not like, feeling weird or anything are you?” he asked sincerely.

“I’m fine, all I’m feeling is day drinking fatigue, which I am valiantly fighting off with night drinking. But I probably should have been more careful. I got used to having royal food tasters.” Though that had been six months ago.

Quentin shrugged. “I’m being paranoid. No one knows we’re here, and I’m pretty sure there’s some magic going on around us to keep us, like, isolated from the rest of Fillory. I’m not even quite sure where we _are_ , people seem unable to give a straight answer. I assumed we were near the Nameless Mountains, since we were on the north side of Whitespire when we got here,  although the Clock Barrens would make more sense, since the quest jumped us in time, but then after we kept walking and found this place, we just don’t seem to be near… anything, really. Can’t even see the castle from this angle anymore. With the river and all, it seems like we’d be near Brighthaven, but no one seems to know that place.”

“You are going into a nerd spiral, Q, and it’s adorable,” Eliot petted Quentin’s hair and Q blushed and shook him off. “At any rate your baddie there was planning seduction, not poison. But alas…nada,” Eliot sighed dramatically.

Quentin laughed. “Hoping for some roadside strange, Waugh?”

“I mean, if they _deliver_ …”

“See, that’s what I mean,” Quentin continued, “we _do_ get a lot of deliveries here. From that second day when we got the welcome wagon right up to today, with those two coming by with peaches.”

“And plums.”

“And plums, which I like better. It’s like… the Mosaic gives us things to keep us here, we don’t have to live and work like other people, we have or receive everything we need. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

“Quentin, I could give you a three-foot list of all the things we _don’t_ have, starting with indoor plumbing. I’m pretty sure the Mosaic doesn’t give a shit about us. I think it’s just a village full of really nice people who are taking care of the weirdos ‘up t’the Mosaic’.”

“But that’s what I mean, the village, it doesn’t even have a name, does it? Oh, I’m out of greens again, could you?” as he gestured to a pile. “Everyone just calls it The Village, like it’s so obvious, why would anyone name it. Isn’t that weird?” Quentin insisted.

“Okay, I’ll give you that one,” Eliot conceded, passing the stack over.

“And that guy who was here when we got here, remember that? The guy who got all mad and stormed off?”

“We now know where he was coming from with that. You _are_ that guy several times a week.”

Quentin ignored the dig. “Ok, but listen-- everyone says the yard was warded when we got here, right? But we didn’t see any wards.”

“We are 'designated questers', of a sort. Maybe they fell away when we got close and we just didn’t see them?” Eliot said.

“That’s what I thought, too, at first. But there was already _someone in here_ , which according to everyone in the village, is completely impossible,” Quentin continued. “But that really isn’t the weird part.”

“And what, pray tell, is the weird part?”

“He just stood up and walked away, El! He didn’t pick up any bags, he didn’t break camp, hell, he didn’t even finish the pattern he had half filled in! I mean, how long does it take to do half a puzzle? An hour and a half? And that’s with two of us. Even if he’s just slapping them in any which way, he had to have been working that one pattern for hours, and he just… quit, right then? _That’s_ when he walked away? Without even seeing if it worked?”

“I did say something to him,” Eliot pointed out.

“You said ‘toodle-oo’, not exactly a terrifying war cry.” Quentin grunted as he pushed in a tile that was a little too far out of reach. “Get that, would you? And he had no bags but the one he was still wearing? And no campfire to break down, no sign he’d been using the hut, nothing to gather and take with him, he wasn’t even moving tiles when we saw him, it’s like he had just come up on it five minutes before and was checking it out for the first time. But then he was so angry, like he’d wasted years on it.”

“Maybe he was just a super crabby guy. Have you been thinking about this for six months?”

“Something bugged me about it then, but I couldn’t put my finger on it, and then we got distracted with the puzzle,” Quentin said. “It wasn’t until people started talking about wards that I started piecing together the bits that were bugging me.”

“So what are you thinking?” Eliot asked.

“I’m thinking it was like… some kind of projection or something that the Mosaic kicked up to like, give us foreshadowing or something. To let us know the puzzle was hard.”

“That didn’t require an explanation. I mean, we learned that pretty much immediately afterward.”

“I know. It was like ‘a waste of screen time’, as you would say,” Quentin chuckled.

“If there is anything I learned in liberal arts college, it’s that every second of redundant exposition is one second you could be spending throwing gratuitous sex to the shippers. Or maybe _Game of Thrones_ taught me that,” he yawned. “Pick up the pace, Coldwater, bed is calling.”  

“I’m having to do all the hard part here!” Quentin huffed. “And I’ll probably end up picking them all up by myself, too, since you went Margaritaville today.”

“Oh, I miss margaritas… I tell you what, I’ll make you a deal.” Eliot rose, teetering. “You can finish this, and I will go jack off to thoughts of Lunk.”

“No, nope, I’m not getting stuck with this tonight. And I thought you said Lunk was gross.”

“Real Lunk is gross. Lunk in my head, on the other hand,” Eliot laughed drunkenly, “or rather Lunk in my hand, in my other head, oh ha it works either way! Oh relax,” he said to Quentin’s irritated look, “I’m not leaving. I just finished all the reds over here and I didn’t want to scootch. Look, we’re almost done. And I’ll help clean up, or you’ll make me do the morning ones alone and I plan to be pretty hungover.”

They existed in this liminal space where the puzzle is something they do, over and over, will do forever, and at the same time it’s always the last time, the one that will unlock the key, until it isn’t, over and over. It was too exhausting to keep praying over each final tile anymore. They didn’t talk about it.

Like a lot of things in those first couple of years.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to never show them alone, but only from the outsider's POV, but this chapter taught me I was wrong about that. :) While I still find it all snaps into place better when I reach outside them for POV, this story will get deep into their issues, and for that, we need to be alone with them sometimes.


	6. Puppy Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin makes some new friends.

Mama was in the kitchen when she heard Eliot and Quentin arrive for their regular night. Their voices echoed through the empty tavern.

“Quentin Makepeace Coldwater!” Eliot exclaimed, “No puzzles in the bar.” 

Mama looked out through the pass-through and saw Quentin pulling out his notebooks. He gestured around him. “There’s no one here to talk to, El, I might as well plan out another--”

 _“This_ ,” Eliot said, gesturing more wildly to mock him, “is an Anti-Puzzle Zone, Coldwater. Take it outside, or take a walk or something. And also,” he added softly as he reached for Quentin’s collar to straighten it, “I approve of this shirt choice.” They shared a warm look, and Quentin blushed a little and grinned. “Now, go, off with you. Find something to do.”

Mama came out of the kitchen. “Hey, look, it's my boys," she said, and leaned over the bar to get a peck on the cheek from Eliot. "Q, honey, I’m heading over to Wicklet’s, Tassie had her pups and I’m going for my first visit. Wanna come with?”

Quentin’s eyes lit up. “Puppies?”

 

“Now, pups,” Wicklet told the assembled litter, “Stay!”

They tried to line up in front of their father, but they were pretty little for commands and Tassie had to keep herding their round little puppy bodies together. “Try to keep it brief, Wick.”.

“This here is Quentin,” Wicklet continued, waving a paw in his direction indicating for Quentin to kneel down by them, “and we love him because he saved Daddy from the whispering wasps.”

“They were pretty easily scared off by a stick and some yelling,” Quentin demurred.

“Nonsense, I could have _died_. Now pups--” and they all turned their heads to Wicklet and everyone held their breath. “--go give him some lovin’s!” and at this command the litter made a beeline for Quentin, knocking him flat on his back and jumping all over him with sloppy puppy kisses, all barking, “Quen’in! Quen’in! Quen’in!” at the top of their puppy lungs.

Quentin laughed like Mama had never heard him do, and grinned a big goofy grin much wider even than the ones he gave Eliot, from what she could see between the pups. They bounced their fat paws on his belly and chest (and face when he lost control of them), some got caught in his long hair that splayed around his head, and when they fell off they came back around and leaped back on the pile. They sniffed and licked him and tickled him with their noses and he was lost in puppy love.

Mama expected this to continue for some time, and turned to Tassie. “So, you feelin’ alright?”

“Tired, but good. The birth wasn’t a heap of fun, but I’m healing quickly. They’re just a handful, thank Ember for Wick, it’s just hard to keep up with them all.”

“Especially at this age,” Mama agreed, as they watched the Quentin-puppy pile go on and on, his laughter and their yelps as background music for their talk. “And you, Wick? Sounds like you’re both taking some time off of herding? And it looks like you’re enjoying it.”

“Oh very much.” Wicklet yawned, and said, “Sorry, it’s just an endless series of naps right now, and never enough of them. But yeah, I love being home.”

“I both miss running and am wondering how I did all that,” Tassie laughed. “I’m so tired right now it’s hard to imagine.”

“Well it won’t be too long before they’re out there with you,” Mama said.

“If that’s what they want to do,” Wicklet insisted. “Why, Eliot was telling me all kinds of horrible stories about his father looking down on him and treatin’ him mean for bein' what he wanted to be, and I tell you what, I’m not gonna be _that_ kind of dad. That'll get you fed to cannibals, I tell you what.” 

Mama had heard Eliot tell this story at the tavern. He said it was a dream he had, but Mama recalled him mentioning running from cannibals with Fen and Fray and wasn't so sure it _was_ a dream. But the way he told it also seemed like it wasn't  _really_ his father-- underneath his showy exterior, he was too good of a man for casual patricide-- and Mama had let it go.

“That’s very progressive of you, Wick,” Quentin chimed in, as the puppies had finally let him up.

The pups wandered their way back to Tassie to suckle. “Oh excuse me, nature calls,” she said, laying back for them all to reach her belly..

“Go right ahead, honey, don’t mind us a bit,” Mama reassured her.

“Well, I mean everyone outta do what they wanna do,” Wicklet continued, “look at Gish and the mill. I just hadn’t really thought about it as a dad thing until Eliot brought it up.”

“My dad was great about that stuff,” Quentin said, and he sounded cheerful enough, but there was something about the way he tucked his hair behind his ear with a little tremor in his fingers that made Mama see Quentin missed his father a great deal. “Eliot had a much harder time with his dad, but he still turned out okay,” He paused, and Mama wondered what he knew about the cannibal situation. “You’ll be a great father, Wick,” he said as he petted the dog between the ears. “Let me know if you need a sitter, ok? They can come over and play, we'd love that.”

 

As Mama and Quentin walked back to the tavern, the night was still and quiet.

After a few minutes, Quentin broke the silence. “I always wanted to have kids,” he said offhandedly.

“With Alice?” This was the first time Mama had brought her up.

“He told you?”

“Just her name, that she was your girl, that it got _complicated_ ,” Mama stressed this word as if it meant _stupid_ , “and now she’s not.”

“No, she’s not. She made that perfectly clear. And to be fair, it got _magically complicated_ , not just the regular kind. Although,” he considered, “the regular kind too, I guess.”

“And where are you at with that, now? You’ve been here eight months.”

“And with lots of time to think, tile by tile,” he sighed. “You know, I think maybe we just weren’t right together.”

“How so?”

“I mean, like, we were always at cross-purposes, even when we worked together on something, even before she-- changed, it wasn’t-- it wasn’t like the tiles, you know? Working _together_ together. No _agendas_ , just together.”

“With Eliot, you mean, not the tiles. The tiles don’t do shit with you except fuck with your head.”

Quentin laughed. “Yes, I guess so. And that’s kind of like Alice, you know, I spent so much time trying to get all the pieces in the right pattern, and sometimes it seemed like it was working, but in the end, well like you said the tiles just fucked with my head, I guess.”

“And you feel better about that now?”

“I think I do. At first I thought, we’ll get back, we’ll fix things, and maybe… But, it’s been a long time now, and the more like, distance I get? You know? It wasn’t her fault,” he hastened to add, “but I think now it wasn’t mine either. It just _was_. And by the end we were sort of… beating a dead horse, I guess you’d say. So there really isn’t an ‘us’ to go back to.

“And anyway, we’re here now,” he continued. “Living in a whole new time-- of our lives, I mean.” He glanced nervously at Mama, who pretended she didn’t notice the slip. “The whole thing just doesn’t feel… contextually relevant at the moment. We have a routine, breakfast and a puzzle, then another, then chores and lunch, another puzzle, and another, and dinner, more chores, then bed.” He paused. “Sometimes we schedule in some primal screaming into the trees, you’d be surprised how that helps.”

Mama laughed heartily. “Now that you’ve warned Barry and his friends not to come running to help when you do that!”

Quentin joined in, nearly doubled over with laughter, “Holy shit, the first time we tried that, we did our screams? And then HOLY FUCK BEARS! Just running right out of the woods at us! Eliot got nearly to the door before I recognized Berengar, I was just frozen in place and he got right up on me before I did though? Holy shit,” he laughed, “holy shit, I thought I was going to die! And Eliot-- you know we have a saying on-- where I’m from, you don’t have to be faster than the bear to get away--”

“--you just have to be faster than the other guy!” they cackled in unison.

“We say that here, too,” Mama said, wiping her laughing eyes on her handkerchief, “only we say it about dragons.”

Quentin found this so funny he had to stop walking to catch his breath.

“Well Eliot is definitely faster than me, and after that I see where I stand with him,” he joked after he had recovered and they continued down the road. “Apparently I’m bear food.”

“Well we both know that’s not true,” Mama grinned slyly.

“Oh yeah? What have you heard?” he grinned back. “C’mon, tell _me_ something for once.” He nudged her with his elbow.

“Aw, I don’t have to tell you a damn thing, you got eyes.”

“It’s not like that, Mama,” Quentin sighed. “I know he loves me, I love him, he’s my best friend besides Julia, and we’ve been through a lot of shit together, good and bad. But he’s-- I mean, I’m not--” he struggled to put it in a way she would understand. “He’s special, he’s… made of gold, I’m… iron, I guess, or lead.”

“Steel, I’d say, with what you’re going through on this quest.”

“Well thank you. But I mean, he’s so… I’m not the kind of guy he would want. I’m not glittery or exciting or cultured, I don’t know wines or clothes and I’m useless at parties--”

“Go to many parties here, do ya?” Mama interjected. “Or drink fancy wine or wear fancy clothes? Besides some nights at my tavern, one barn dance and a trip to see some pups is all the excitement we’ve had since you’ve been here.”

“Well no, that’s fair. But you know how he is at the tavern, right? I can’t do that.”

“Good thing I didn’t hire you, then.”

“Hmm.”

They walked for a while in silence.

“Maybe it isn’t so much about what you can’t do _with_ him, Mama said, “as it is what you do _for_ him. He’s armor-plated, for sure, but you give him strength, you are the reason he keeps going.”

“Oh no, you have it backwards. I couldn’t get through this without Eliot. I get… anxious, and he is so chill, he keeps me calm, keeps me moving. He planted a garden, he got the well flowing again, he does _all_ of the cooking, he even got a job with you. All I do is chop wood, do math, and place tiles. Even that, he makes these beautiful works of art, just to be pulled up, mind you, and all I’m doing is placing tiles where I haven’t placed them before. He’s… special. Gifted. I don’t even have a magical discipline,” he sighed. “Trust me, he loves me, but not like that.”

“Okay, if you say so. I guess you know him better.”

“I mean... do you think?”

“We’re here,” Mama pointed at the tavern, glowing sweetly in the night, Cleve’s voice warbling through the open windows, and avoided the question.

 

Four months later, Mama swung the storeroom door open, and closed it again immediately, and backed quickly away.

A few minutes later, a mussed Quentin with kissed-red lips emerged, glancing around furtively. He caught Mama’s eye, who was watching this from the kitchen.

“We’re um-- we’re not overthinking it,” he explained. He grinned at her sheepishly and ducked out of the room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because today, I wanted to listen to Quentin laugh and cover him in puppies, which seemed like something I could get away with, here. :)
> 
> And lo and behold I backed into the anniversary... :) This time period moves a bit fast in this work, since we've already seen more of these first couple of years in the show. We'd all probably like to slow down and zoom in close and see how this all went down. As I write this note from months in the future, I'm a bit sorry there's not more of this time period. But here's the thing-- adding the sexual component to their relationship means writing some smut, and that is not my forte, based on some experimenting I did. :) But this is the Mamaverse Series now, and perhaps some standalone (and maybe even smutty!) stories may appear in the future to flesh out this time period. In this work, we'll hear about it when they tell Mama. 
> 
> Note on ships: I'm definitely a Queliot, but I mean no disrespect to Qualices. They were just at a really bad place when the guys left for the quest. I tried to show that without bashing the Qualice ship too much. Hope I didn't ruffle any feathers.


	7. Ogres At the Mill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot tells Mama a story.

Mama had come up to bring the boys some food, and was sitting under the shade of the trees on the south side of the puzzle, watching Eliot work.

“I suppose it’s my punishment, in a way,” Eliot said, pushing in a tile and reaching for another. “We got behind yesterday, and stayed up too late last night. So I’m letting him sleep in and trying to get at least one of these done before he gets up.”

In all the time she’d known them, she’d visited more than once, but never watched them actually work the puzzle. Eliot consulted Quentin’s notebook, the pastel marks representing each tile, and started counting.

“Fuck! I hate it when I get off by one, most of this row has to come back out,” he said as he started pulling them back up again.

“Oh, I know that feeling, I do counted cross-stitch, same thing,” Mama said. “Have to tear out a whole row because you’re off, or it’s the wrong color, pisses me the fuck off. This here thing you’re making, this would be a good cross-stitch. Maybe I could copy it down and try my hand at it.”

“I am willing to bet, based on experience, that it is not the beauty of all life. Or maybe it is. Anyway, I’d wait for that one.”

A silence fell between them. If he found it, it would be the end of them, the end of this friendship. Maybe that would be a time to take up cross-stitch again, her life will be so quiet and empty when these boys are gone. She sighed.

“Oh cheer up, Mama! We fail at this quest several times a day, you’re just here for the early show. You know, I sometimes wonder if this is even a real quest, or if it’s just some kind of grand distraction.” He hesitated, not sure how to continue.

“What’re you thinkin’?” Mama prodded.

“You know there are things I can’t tell you, right?” 

“I know. It’s probably best.” Silence. “Need to get something off your chest? Is it about Quentin?”

“Ah, gossip,” Eliot sighed, as if it were a guilty pleasure he couldn’t afford. 

“You’re… together now?”

“It’s not like that, it's... all tangled up in the other stuff. Goddammit, this is hard.”

“Can you… tell it to me like a story? Without the real bits, just something so I know how it is, even if I don’t really know? Sometimes Quentin does that for me when he’s trying to talk about math, he makes it a story about kings and queens and stuff,” Mama said.

“A story… shit, it’s already a fairy tale, of sorts. Okay, okay, it’s like…” Eliot looked up to the sky, as if the story were written there if he could find it. “Okay, let’s say that one day, Gana and Gish packed up and left and the village was like, ‘Eliot, you run the mill now.’ And I’m like, okay, never wanted to run a mill, don’t give a shit about the mill, that was Gish’s thing, but someone has to grind the grain so fine, I’ll run the mill. Oh, and I have to leave the hut here and go move to the mill, and can’t ever leave it, because there’s like, rules. And I have to wear Gish’s aprons and workshirts and can’t ever choose my own clothes again, and oh wait we forgot to tell you, whoever runs the mill has to marry this girl who doesn’t want to marry you either but hey, mill rules. And hey, there are other mills you have to do diplomacy with, and maybe you have to marry a boy miller too, but he’s cool so that’s okay but then whoops, diplomacy fails and you don’t get the boy miller after all. And then… ogres take over the mill. I still have to run it, and I have to pretend to all of you that there’s no ogres, and they’re making me do all kinds of stupid shit for them that isn’t getting the town any grain, and now I’m hiding in the woods with Margo trying to make up codes so that the… ogres can’t tell what we’re up to.”

“Margo is here?”

“Sorry, that was a slip. I mean she’s back there, still dealing with… the ogres and the mill. Am I making any sense at all?”

“I think I’m keeping up,” Mama said. _That horrible bitch_ is the ogre part, she thought.

And Eliot, her Eliot, might be a king. By Ember’s hooves.

“Anyway, the point of all this is, I don’t run my life. I run the _mill_ , I mean I used to, but except for trying to… fix everything so we can free the mill from the ogres, and running off on a quest, I hadn’t made a choice of my own since I don’t know when.”

“And you think the quest is a distraction? From… the mill?”

“I sometimes wonder if the ogres didn’t like, lure me away. This puzzle is ridiculous, and exactly the sort of bullshit they would pull. Plunk me down in the woods with a pretty boy who happens to be my best friend who I’ve been missing terribly and then give me a stupid puzzle I can’t solve to keep out of their business for over a year...”

“Sounds like fairies,” Mama said, and Eliot’s eyes widened in alarm. “Okay, okay, forget I said that. Ogres at the mill. Just ogres,” she said quickly.

“We probably should change the subject.” He consulted the book again, and began to gather stacks of tiles for the next row.

“If you insist,” Mama said with a twinkle in her eye. “Why were you boys up so late last night?”

Eliot laughed deep in his throat as if to say _you know damn well why._ “Just… letting off a little steam. Primal screams don’t quite entirely purge the system.”

Mama had been hoping for a little more smut in this story, but it didn’t seem like she was going to get any.

“Well you’ve been purging Quentin pretty good I guess, he’s been downright glowing these past few weeks,” she teased.

“Gotta keep that pool of sadness drained, er, as it were,” he chuckled. “I mean,” he continued more seriously, “he can be kind of fragile, and he can spiral out sometimes. And the puzzle is good for that, some days, it’s relaxing and zen, just tile after tile. But other times, I don’t know, it gives him too much time to think, and worry. And when the pattern fails, as it does every single fucking time, sometimes that is kinda zen too, like okay, well, we didn’t have to face all that today, good. But other times the failure feels… like endless fucking failure. It would be hard for the Dalai Lama to deal with that--”

Whoever that was, Mama thought. There were llamas in the South, but she didn’t know of any famous ones.

“--but Q, he takes it hard some days. Sometimes can’t even get out of bed. Not sure if today is going to be one of those days, actually, he’s really sleeping in.” He lowered his voice, in case Quentin was awake inside. “Anyway, if it’s primal screams, if it’s a good meal, if it’s a night at the bar, and yes, if it’s fucking, I’m going to give him whatever he needs to keep him with me, keep him going.”

 _How romantic,_ Mama thought dryly. But she knew it all came from a place of love, a love that wanted to keep Quentin safe, and whole, and protected. "You said this was tangled in the other stuff? The... mill?"

“Oh, I just mean, it can’t… we can’t… bring it back with us. Everything is chaos at the mill, and I don’t get to make any choices anyway, so… It just can’t be like that. What happens at the Mosaic stays at the Mosaic. And anyway,” he said, leaning in and speaking low, “I think he’d prefer a woman, if he had a choice. I’m just here, I’m convenient, in arm’s reach, as it were.”

He had to know that wasn’t true, Mama thought. By Ember, he looks right into Quentin’s eyes, can’t he _see?_ Or does he make himself blind to it to protect himself? Because if he _has_ Quentin, and he _loses_ Quentin...

 _Complicated_ , Mama thought, but kept her counsel.

 

 

 

 


	8. The New Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin breaks things.

Mama stepped out of the brightly lit and noisy barn of the New House and into a yard Hund had set up just off the side door with lantern lights for those who wanted some fresh air. The only one availing himself of it at the moment was Quentin, sitting on a bench with his forearms on his knees, staring at the ground in front of him.

“Q, hon, what are you doing out here?” Mama said.

Quentin lifted his right hand, which held a cigarette.

“Ah, I see. Can I join you?” she asked.

He motioned to the bench as if to say _by all means_ , but didn't speak. She took a seat next to him and lit a cigarette of her own.

They sat smoking in silence for several minutes, until Quentin ran his hand through his hair, lifting the curtain that hung down between them. Mama took this as a signal, he was warming up. She didn’t press, let him come to it in his own time. After eighteen months, she was reading him more clearly than ever.

Eliot was inside the barn, laughing and drinking with the villagers. And Quentin was here, head down, not talking. It hardly took a clairvoyant.

“I suppose you expect me to unburden myself,” he said wryly.

“I’m just smoking a cigarette, Q. You do what you want.”

Silence. Quentin stubbed out his cigarette with his foot and lit another. More silence.

“He doesn’t love me,” Quentin said flatly.

“Is that so.”

“Oh don’t start! You think you know everything!” Quentin’s voice was beginning to raise in volume. “You think you know us, you don’t _know_ us, you don’t know anything about us or anything we’ve been through or are going through! And you don’t know him, not like I do.”

“Okay.”

“I told you, I _told_ you, that night on our walk from Wick’s, I’m not enough for him, and I was okay with that, I was, it was just how things were. God, why did I ever kiss him?” he moaned, and his head went in his hands.

“Q, honey, what brought all this on? Why tonight?”

“See, yeah, why tonight?” he brought his head up, eyes flashing. “Why not yesterday, or months ago? Why have I let this go on so long? I thought, I _thought_ when we took things to the next level we would, you know, _take things to the next level_ , but it’s not like that,” he said through gritted teeth in a voice that said _of course it’s not like that, I was so stupid._ “But I hung on, like a fucking idiot, thinking I could break through to him, thinking I could make him love me if I just kept trying, if I helped more or talked to him more or fucked him more, but there’s nothing, there’s nothing in that well, it’s dry.”

He stood and he began to pace, though keeping his voice low so it couldn’t get through the doors and past the noise and music of the dance inside.

“It’s fucking Alice all over again. She did this too, right at the end, just fuck and pretend that’s love, and neverfuckingmind that she was just stringing me along, giving me hope when she knew, she _knew_ she didn’t love me! And I was so stupid, I didn’t see it coming with Eliot, even after having just been through it! And do you know what the worst part is?” he stopped in front of Mama, pointing at her with his cigarette hand.

“No I do not, Quentin,” she said quietly.

“Well… neither do I! Because the worst part is either that I’m losing my best friend too, or that I am stuck here IN THIS GODFORSAKEN PLACE WITH HIM,” he yelled at the sky.

They both looked at the open barn door, then, to see if anyone heard that. No signs anyone had.

“Do you wanna take this to the road, Q?”

“Sure, fine,” he seethed, and he stormed off toward the River Road, Mama catching up to him in a few strides. When they had reached the darkness of the road, Quentin continued.

“I’m either too much, or not enough, but I am sick of fucking begging people to love me! Like the fucking tiles, I try again and again and it’s never right and it’s never enough and I’m fucking sick of it. Love me, _really love me_ , or leave me the fuck alone! You can’t keep having your Quentin cake and EATING IT TOO MOTHERFUCKERS!” he yelled once again to the sky, as if his lovers past and present floated there, ethereal.

Mama just walked with him, which is all she could do.

They walked in silence to the Mosaic.

“Okay, I’m home, you can go,” he said through gritted teeth, but didn’t look at Mama, just kept walking for the door.

“Think I’ll sit for a bit if that’s all right,” she said.

“Do what you want,” Quentin said, and slammed the door behind him.

Mama went to a bench that was right under a lantern, and set down her bag. She walked over to the woods and knelt down. “Hey, psst, I need a message delivered, anyone there?”

Soon, a rabbit appeared. She picked it up and whispered in its ear, “To Berengar. Need bed. Mosaic.” Then as it began to hop away, she went back to her bench. She sat and pulled a cross-stitch hoop, a work in progress, out of her bag, and set to work.

She sewed until Berengar and his friend Martiworth came sauntering out of the woods, a wooden bed frame with a straw mattress on it swinging between them in their huge paws.

“Over here,” she said, indicating a spot just before the worktable. She went to the line and took down a quilt and spread it on the bed as they got it level. “Thanks. No questions asked, yeah?” and Barry and Marty nodded and headed off back for the woods. Mama followed them to edge, and waving goodbye to the bears, she knelt again. “Another message, please.”

Another rabbit appeared, and this time she whispered, “To Eliot. Quentin safe at home.”

Eliot arrived in a flush a few minutes later, as if he had been running to get back to the Mosaic. “Mama, what’s wrong, what happened?”

“I think you happened. But I’m not getting in the middle of all that.” She rose and began to pack her bag, but Eliot grabbed her arm.

“You _are_ in the middle of it, you had to bring him home, please, please tell me, what is happening right now?”

“I believe Quentin has gone to bed. And I don’t think he wants you to follow, not tonight, anyway. That’s your bed, there,” and she pointed to the new arrival.

Eliot looked stunned, shook, lost. Mama’s heart broke for him. “The pool is big tonight, El,” she said softly. “Don’t try to swim in it. Just leave it be until the morning. Sleep now.”

“Oh god I fucked it up, didn’t I?” His hands were shaking as they went through his hair.

“I don’t know. It’s not good… talk to Quentin in the morning.” She paused as she saw his knees were trying to give way, and took him by the arm and led him to his bed. She helped him lie down, his wild eyes staring at the sky, and turned to go, but he grabbed her hand.

“Stay? Please?”

Mama nodded, patted his hand, and went to get a chair and her bag, which she pulled over to his bedside. She took out her sewing.

“The beauty of all life?” Eliot said in a whisper.

“This is part of it, too, honey, this is part of it too.”

They stayed like this for a long time, not talking, Eliot staring up into the dark and Mama sewing, slashes forward for a row, then slashes back for a row, over and over. Eventually, Eliot’s eyes closed and he had something that might pass for sleep.

 

 


	9. A Scene from the Mosaic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You may recognize this one.

“You’re alive,” Eliot snapped as Quentin came out of the hut, and wished he hadn’t. He was strung out from a slight hangover and a fitful night’s sleep, and he was heartsick and angry, a feeling that had built as he had laid tile after tile on his own that morning. And getting angry with himself for getting angry, so his feelings fed on themselves, an ouroboros of flames.

“This isn’t living,” Quentin said flatly. He was still pulling on a shirt, looking disheveled, like he hadn’t slept. He shuffled through the door but didn’t bother closing it behind him.

“Well, I got started. Are you gonna help, or what?” He just couldn’t control his sharp tone, and the flames leaped higher.

“You don’t need me, you don’t need anyone, you’re High King Eliot Waugh for fuck’s sake. Do it yourself.”

“Goddammit, Quentin, not today,” he said, grabbing the notebook and papers roughly. "Not after the shit you pulled last night.”

“I left a party. Sue me.”

“Oh, you didn’t just _leave_ , you made a real show of it, you know the whole fucking village knows about you leaving me there. And you’re lucky it was just Mama whom you melted down in front of, because she won’t tell, but you know it’s the talk of the fucking town anyway, because _they had to bring me a fucking bed,_ Coldwater!”

“Oh no! Did I commit a social faux pas?” Quentin said in a mocking tone that was hardly above the flat monotone he’d been using. “I should just fucking leave then and spare you the eternal embarrassment,” he said, reaching for the ties of his wraparound shirt.

“And go where, Quentin? Go live in a fucking cave somewhere?”

“Yes, _Eliot,_ in a cave, or some woods, or a beachfront fucking condo. Anywhere but here, doing this fucking impossible puzzle over and over again.” He sounded tired, resigned, done. He kept working on tying the knot in his shirt as he moved to a chair.

“We could be done tomorrow for all you know. We can’t just throw away all this _time_ we’ve invested!” Eliot’s fingers twitched and he stacked the papers roughly against his hip. “You want to live your life, live it here,” he growled, stepping over the puzzle to the table and turning away from Quentin so his-- _heart, my heart, he’s leaving he’s going to leave me he’s going to leave me--_ couldn’t see the anger and fear in his eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well what it means,” he said angrily as he slapped the papers on the table, knowing that was a useless thing to say but not knowing how to say _if you leave you will rip my heart out of my fucking chest and take it with you and I will lay down and die here, because a hollow man can’t stand and how the fuck can you not see that and why are you the only one who gets to hurt._

Behind him, a noise. Quentin had kicked a stack of tiles into the dirt, a look of defiance barely breaking the surface of his empty face. “Oops,” he said.

Eliot wanted to scream, wanted to run, wanted to hit, wanted to cry. Instead his face became stone, and he gripped his fists tight against his thighs and glared at Quentin. And then heard himself say words he didn’t mean, and wished he could take back even as each syllable left his lips, unbidden.

“Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

 

When the rabbit came an hour later, Eliot was sobbing in his outdoor bed.

“Q staying with me.”

Another rabbit appeared just as the first finished.

“Stay strong. Love, Mama.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, the only way out is through. Remember, Mama loves you. She loves all of us.


	10. Being Him Is Who You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mending, not minor.

Mama and Quentin sat in the empty tavern, having breakfast.

“Want some more?” Mama pointed at the stack of pancakes on the platter in front of them. He nodded, she served. “Good to see you eating again, Q.”

“I feel like I haven’t eaten in a week,” he said. 

“You haven’t, really.” He had spent most of it in bed, in her spare room upstairs.

“Hmm.”

Mama sipped her tea, and waited. Quentin sat back, plate empty, and pulled a leather tie from his wrist and tied back his hair. Good, she thought, it’s gonna come out. He looked worn, but better.

“Mama, thank you for taking care of me. I’m sorry… I wish I wasn’t someone who had to be taken care of.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, we are all that person, sometimes.”

“I was hospitalized for it,” he paused at her confused look and tried again. “Put myself in a special home for people who need to get better. In their heads. It’s not something… it’s not fixable. It’s… my life.”

“I’m sorry, Q.”

“Me too.” He sighed. “When I get like that, I… sometimes break things. Good things. Do you,” he swallowed, and started again. “Do you think I broke a good thing?”

“Q, honey, you know I can’t answer that. Has it been feeling like a good thing, these past few months?”

He thought about it seriously, then answered, “I meant what I said. I can’t do half measures anymore.”

Mama nodded and sipped her tea. She didn’t have to ask, she’d heard Eliot justify holding back months ago, thinking he was doing the right thing. _And now the tree has borne fruit,_ she thought.

“I miss him, so much. And I feel so bad, he’s been doing the puzzles now for days and days by himself. Has anyone gone up there, is he okay?”

“Gana’s been up with food, and Cleve took up some firewood.” Mama said, and Quentin winced. Firewood was his job. “He’s alright, now, but he’s… stopped doing the puzzle.”

“Oh god...”

“I think it’s all right, you both needed a break.”

“Is he drinking? Be honest.”

“Well, it was bad there for a few days, he kept himself pretty much hammered, as you would say. But then two days ago he started cleaning, I hear. Re-organizing everything. Not sure what that’s about.”

“Sometimes when he’s anxious he takes it out on closets. But it’s good, he’s up and moving.”

“Good then.” She took another sip. “When are you going up there?”

“Oh, I-- I can’t, I-- he doesn’t want to see me. He threw me out, remember?”

“He didn’t mean it.”

“Maybe not. But maybe I broke him,” Quentin sighed.

“He thought you were going to leave him.”

“I was, I mean, I did, I guess.”

“Well… you didn’t get very far.”

“No.”

“And can you find your way back?” Mama asked, and they caught eyes, each thinking _it’s just one road out of the village._

“What I want isn’t up there anymore, Mama.” He ran his hands through his hair, deftly removing and replacing the hair tie as he did.

“And what is that?” she asked, noting a shadow moving on the wall behind the bar.

Quentin sighed deeply. “I just want it back how it was. Our friendship, or… this thing between us, it’s like… it’s like a lake. And we sat in a boat on top. And I fell in. And I just want… I just want back in the boat. To dry off and pretend I never fell in. But it’s too late for that.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Mama said, and rose with her cup. She nodded at the door, and Quentin turned around in his chair to find Eliot standing there. 

 

*

 

Quentin froze at the sight of him. Eliot was backlit from the sunlight outside, the tips of his curls glowing but all else in shadow. His frame was a black monolith in a long dark coat, which spread like wings as each hand held one side of the doorframe. Neither moved for an eternity of a moment, as Mama slipped into the kitchen.

Then, as if a dam broke, Eliot swooped down to kneel by Quentin’s chair, his coat billowing around him. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, please come back in the boat, I fucked it up, I see now it wasn’t a good thing for you--” Quentin's eyes widened, not sure what to make of this, but Eliot was still going, grabbing onto the hips of Quentin’s trousers and looking up at him with welling eyes, “I just need you to come home, it can be what you want, we can just forget all that and be _us_ again, just like we were, just come home, please, I fixed it all up for you, I fixed it, I can fix it,” and he collapsed into Quentin’s lap.

And Quentin began to tear up too, because he loved this man so much, this man who did everything for him, who took care of him and protected him and nourished him, and Quentin had broken something precious in him, this man who never deserved anything but his love, his friendship. He had broken him by trying to make him into something he wasn’t, trying to take something Eliot couldn’t give, trying to make this _king_ into his _prince,_ and he felt foolish and selfish and hated himself.

“I love you, El,” he wept into Eliot’s back and gripped his coat tight in both hands. “I don’t need us to be anything more, because you and me, we are _everything_ and it doesn’t have to check all the boxes of some fairy tale romance, it’s better than that, it’s _more_ than that. It's so much more, El, El, I'll come home and I'll never ever leave you again, I swear, please, please look at me," he begged.

Eliot lifted his head and brought up his watery hazel eyes. Quentin's heart broke further when he saw the hope in them. This could all be repaired, if he could let go of his stupid fantasies and accept this man  for who he was. 

"I love you, too, Q," Eliot choked out, and they embraced, locked in their new understanding. Friends, and more than that, sworn brothers, and partners, forever.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned, but this was an exhausting and emotional day of writing, and I might need a day off. (Also, fuck the grocery store for playing Take On Me when I went to run get dinner in the middle of all this.)
> 
> And if I broke your heart today like I broke mine, just remember, their story isn't finished, don't worry. Peaches and plums, motherfuckers.


	11. An Interlude from the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of Chapter 10. Same day, on the way home.

They walked home, holding hands because why the fuck not? They knew who they were to each other now, had it all straightened out between them, and didn’t have anything to prove.

Quentin desperately hoped that Eliot would not stop touching him. That easy touch of his, on Quentin’s hair, his arm, draping over him or giving his head a quick kiss, that was so _Eliot_ he just couldn’t imagine being around him and not being constantly touched. Seemed like things were going to be okay on that front, though, and he ran his thumb over Eliot’s hand in reassurance to say _I like this, this is okay with me._

“I like your coat,” he said out loud. “Is it new?”

“It is not, it’s still the same duster, I just made it dark blue and raised the collar and flared the bottom of it. It was _so_ last season,” Eliot winked at him, and then considered. "Actually, I suppose I made it  _more_ last season. I lost one like it running from cannibals." Which made him laugh, for once.

Good, Quentin thought, things are not irrevocably broken. Eliot was still _Eliot_ , though he seemed older, somehow.

“I’m surprised you noticed, Q,” Eliot continued, nudging him a bit with his elbow.

“Oh I know I don’t know anything about clothes, but I’m not _blind,_ I love the way you dress.”

Quentin wasn't sure if this was too far, because Eliot gave a slight wince before recovering his usual patter. “Well I’m glad, because I wore it special. Thought it might look very _dramatic,_ framed in a doorway, in silhouette…”

“It did, you were stunning. Took my breath away.” Quentin was getting dangerously closer to a borderline that they had just established. He tried to fix it with a joke. “You should try it around Lunk, see if you can get a response.”

Thankfully, Eliot laughed heartily. “Lunk is gross. And anyway, I wouldn’t do that to Arielle. Unless,” he gave a sly grin and moved Quentin’s hand so they were arm-in-arm, “we could get them both, one for you and one for me.”

“Deliveries!” Quentin said, and they laughed together. This wasn’t easy, but they were going to find a way. 

“In any case, about the coat,” Eliot continued, “I just want you to know that I had a very eloquent speech prepared, and I was going to be very _grand_ , and charming, maybe lean against the mantle and let this coat hang _very_ dramatically, and just _casually_ offer that you should come back with me.” He smiled at Quentin, who looked back up at him happily. “I didn’t mean to weep like a baby all over your pants.”

“It’s okay, I… well, you might want to check out the back of your coat when we get home, I kinda grabbed and pulled at it. And it’s tear-stained."

Eliot laughed and swung his arm around Quentin’s shoulders, pulling him into a hug as they walked. “Oh Q, we are a hot mess.”

“Yes, yes we are,” Quentin grinned. But it was all going to be okay now.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Eliot in my head was a bit embarrassed he had gotten so angsty last chapter, and wanted me to "restore some semblance of his dignity". :) 
> 
> This really belongs at the end of Chapter 10 but I'd already posted that and wasn't sure how to alert people who had already read 10. (I've since learned I can post a message as a chapter and then delete it later when everyone's caught up.)


	12. Forever, My Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A textbook entry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found in a book in Brakebills, or would be, if anyone was looking. Only barely remembered by Eliot, who took an elective in Horomancy.

_Horomancy Through The Ages_ (2011), pp. 347-348. 

**FOREVER, MY LOVE**

An enchantment meant to maintain and preserve a moment in time, persistent, and resistant to any other horomancy, time travel, or travel from another timeline. Maintains a paradox in which the preserved moment in time continues to exist alongside any altered timeline that replaces it.

 

**Origins and References**

Seemingly designed by an unknown horomancer in the 11th century, the origins of _Forever, My Love_ are shrouded in myth.

 

**_Bertolny_ **

The first reference is in Bertolny’s _Tales of the Knight_ (1064) in which a knight, who is being hunted by a witch trying to erase his very existence, casts a spell to preserve his first kiss with his true love; however, no details of the spell survive. Furthermore, the knight defeats the witch, thereby negating the need for the preservation spell. Some scholars such as Dr. Jefferson Bale maintain that the knight defeating the witch might indeed be an effect of the spell, since doing so prevented any timeline alterations in the future, and so did indeed preserve the kiss in the past _[Romance and Magic (2009)]_. While other references follow, the name of the spell comes from Bertolny.

 

**_Davoud Atlasi_ **

Persian horomancer Davoud Atlasi, best known for his poetry surrounding magic, tells a similar tale to Bertolny in his _Dreams of Nights Alone_ (1347). In the 1973 translation by Dr. Tiffany Strong, the citation reads:

My love is unbounded as the sea

Under the stars and moonlight

For who dares take this night from me

And takes you, my love, ever from my sight?

I weave my love around us, like a spell,

And imbue with power the emblems of our love

That those within our past or future dwell

May naught take that which belongs to Him above.

This passage implies that that the spell consists of horomancy wards which bound the preserved time and protect it from time travelers. It further indicates the use of enchanted magical objects to create the spell, and once again references the desire to protect a moment of true love.

 

**_John Dee_ **

In _Horomancy And The Effects Whereof_ (1592), the English magician John Dee researched the effects of _Forever, My Love_ by way of an interview with a young man who claimed to have cast it.

The man reported he and his friend to have been in possession of a lead cross imbued with horomancy magic, with which they could travel through time, and they took turns using it. While he said he did this “in all frivolity” and with no desire to change the past, he had begun to notice small changes in his environment upon his return, and discrepancies between his memory and his friend’s. Fearful that this would cost him his young wife and child, he vowed to stop the traveling himself, but could not persuade his friend.

With his family still at risk, he and his wife cast _Forever, My Love._ First, he borrowed the cross again and used its power to enchant a letter, explaining all their plans, to himself by way of his family home, and a time five years in the future. Then the man and his wife set to work enchanting “objects from their lodging” which they mixed together with “sundry magicked items” and set on fire while the young man “sang to his love a ballad to draw upon ‘the magick of the father of melodious songs’ [Orpheus].”  The young man showed John Dee the letter, which he included in his book, and explained that this was all he knew of his young wife and child. Since he had found the letter and held it, he had a sense of a dream-like knowledge of this other life, but only flashes of memory. Nothing in his current life reflected a time spent with this woman, but he resolved to find her. He did indeed find her, in a neighboring village, and she had a child about five years older than his son was in his dream-memory. She was unable to give a straight answer as to the father of the child or how she had become a mother, as if these questions made no sense to her, and as they became acquainted, he learned this trait applied to her family and friends as well. Nor did she bear any stigma for having a child of an unknown father.

The young man believed his friend to have changed the past so significantly that he had failed to meet his wife, and yet the child apparently had remained persistent, as was the intention he had expressed in his letter to himself, and “the world bent around him as if he were destined to be”. The young lady, once she had also read the letter, began to have similar dream-memories to his own, and they soon rekindled their romance and were married, and the man adopted the son as his own, which he believed him to be.

Dee’s work unfortunately has scant details as to the spell itself, as he was focused on documenting the effects caused by reported horomancy.

 

**_Maya Mehrotra’s Time Travel Experiments_ **

In 1967, Maya Mehrota and seven other magicians from India attempted to alter the British Occupation by, among other things, interfering with the reign of Queen Victoria. Their work was thwarted, however, by an enchantment that Victoria had put in place to protect her love with her beloved husband, Albert. “When we spoke to staff surrounding the young Queen,” Mehrota wrote in her memoir _Journeys in Horomantic Time_ (1983), “it was clear they were under enchantment. They couldn’t process any concept that involved changes to any bit of her schedule, travel, or correspondence that pertained to Albert in any way, and from their glazed expressions and rapid subject changes, it was not simply devotion to Her Majesty. Lenses confirmed the presence of enchantment.”

After traveling to several points in Victoria’s reign, and tracking magicians in the area, the team discovered that the French magician Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin had helped cast _Forever, My Love_ for Queen Victoria in 1848, and had confided as much to his wife, Josèphe. “According to Josèphe’s maid,” Mehrota wrote, “the spell had required cooperative magic between he and Victoria, given the power needed to protect the entire courtship and marriage. It involved enchanting three objects that represented their love and their time together, which were then combined in a bowl with both her hair and Albert’s, and blood from both, which was then set alight as the spell was cast by Victoria herself.” The effects may have persisted until Albert’s death in 1861, as Mehrota’s team encountered similar enchantment effects in their one and only travel to a time after the spell but before his death, in 1859. However as there is evidence that Victoria was practicing other magic at the time, it is unclear if these or any of the enchantments were actually caused by _Forever, My Love._ Nevertheless, it should be noted that without evidence to the contrary, the entire marriage appears to have remained intact as it was, even beyond Albert’s death, and to this day.

 

**Requirements and Application**

_Forever, My Love_ requires:

  1. Objects that represent the time period involved, and reflect the love that needs protection. The number of objects must be at least three, but more may increase the power of the spell and the length of time it will cover.
  2. The objects must be enchanted with love magic. Binding spells are recommended, see _Phillia Spells of Ancient Greece_ (1987). For short moments, this can be done with one magician, longer periods require cooperative magic of at least two magicians.
  3. Blood and hair from the magician, and also from the person with whom they share the love that is to be protected. While no data exists about three or more people participating in the ritual, adding additional blood and hair should further power the spell.
  4. A bowl.
  5. A love song of your choosing. It is recommended that the song have some emotional resonance to the love being protected.



Once the moment that you wish to preserve has ended, combine the enchanted objects in the bowl along with the blood and hair. Set alight while singing the love ballad.

 

**Effects**

The time period should now be preserved against horomancy or time travel. The ancillary people affected (servants, friends, neighbors) may experience the effects of the enchantment, such that their actions will always preserve the moment. If horomancy or time travel attempts to alter the moment directly, they will be thwarted, and their actions will prove unable to affect the time period.

**_Objects_ **

If, however, a larger time period which encompasses the preserved time is erased and replaced due to horomancy or time travel, any objects that have been sent out of or created by the preserved time period will remain persistent, although their origins will then be a mystery. Holding them will cause the participants in the preserved moment to retain a dream-like memory of the facts of the time, while not being able to recall specific details as in normal memory.

**_People_ **

If a child is born in the preserved time period, he or she will also continue to exist, while their origins become a mystery, with memories altered. It is possible that some of the original memory may be restored by holding or interacting with objects sent out from the time period, although this should be done with caution, as holding two sets of memories without being a direct participant in the spell may cause side effects in the mental health of the child, depending on their age. See  _The Psychology of Time Alterations_ (1997) for more.

**_Information_ **

Describing the effects of _Forever, My Love_ to someone who did not participate will have no negative side effects of the listener, even if the timeline has been greatly altered. This should include any descendants of a child produced in the preserved time period, although this has not been tested or documented.

**_Travel_ **

It is unclear if the moment of preserved time, if entirely replaced, can be visited as an alternate reality, but all indications are that the paradox of two different timelines coexisting for the same time period will remain intact due to the effects of the spell.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's possible I should read the books before trying to write Magicians magic, but, well, that's how it is.
> 
> Also, Quentin finally gets an answer to his question, "Why can't it be powered by love?" Well, sometimes, it can.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed totally nerding out with me! It actually took a surprising amount of research, which I am supposed to be doing for a scholarly paper I'm submitting to a conference, but my brain refuses to leave the Mosaic. C'est la vie.


	13. An Interlude on Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin has an idea.

“You said you took an elective in horomancy, right? El?” Quentin asked as they finished lunch at their outdoor table and Eliot rolled a cigarette.

“Sorry, what?”

“Horomancy. You took an elective?” Quentin asked, and Eliot nodded. “I have questions--”

“Oh Q, you know the answer.”

“Wait-- what answer?”

“A cute boy, of course.” Eliot smirked.

 _“A cute boy_ is not the answer to any of my questions. Although now I’m wondering what _that_ question was.”

“Oh, I thought you were asking why I took an elective.” Eliot lit the cigarette and pushed back from the table to stretch his legs. “Please don’t tell me you have Horomancy questions, I barely paid attention to anything but… Harold? Hank? Whatever his name was. I enjoyed the singing, though. Lots of singing in horormancy, as it turns out.”

“Ok, but look, reason this out with me--”

“Why, did you find a magic peyote cactus here in the wild woods of Fillory?"

“El, please.”

“Okay, fine, hit me.” Eliot blew a smoke ring in the form of an infinity symbol.

“I’ve been thinking about this Mosaic quest and how it relates to time,” Quentin began. “Okay, so first off, we traveled way into the past, that’s point one. Two, if it’s true we are the ones who already solved the puzzle before Jane arrived, then this is our real past, the same timeline of Fillory as the books and... the rest of our lives, I guess. And three, what Mama said, about this quest taking us back to our own time, she had a good point about that.”

“You think this key is a Time Key.”

“Maybe, yeah,” Quentin shrugged.

“And if it is, what does that get us? I mean, besides another key of the seven.”

“Not sure. But an object imbued with time magic, it could be powerful, dangerous, even.” Quentin looked more worried than intrigued.

“Oh shit Q, if you are going to start talking paradoxes, I am way too sober and this is much to early in the day. This is for getting high under the stars, _man,_ ” Eliot intoned, Cheech and Chong style, “like _what if none of this is real, man, and we’re just living an alternate reality that won’t ever exist in the future because we stopped ourselves from going to the past, man...”_

”You laugh. We could really fuck this whole thing up, without even meaning to, just by _having_ a Horomancy key. Get ourselves caught in another time loop. Or bounce out of this reality into another timeline and never get back to ours.” Quentin took a final bite of his salad and reached for the water pitcher to pour himself another glass.

“But Jane found our solved puzzle in ours, or so you insist, so we apparently didn’t do that. If it was us.”

“Okay, okay—” Quentin’s gears were turning again, “so if it’s all one timeline, then we always came here and always did this.”And somehow in that moment, that was the most romantic idea he had ever thought of. He shook it off, as Eliot seemed unaffected as he inhaled and held it before answering.

“So assuming we fuck this up once we get this all-powerful key,” he sighed with the knowledge of their track record, “what’s the damage?”

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but… paradoxes,” Quentin said, and true to form, Eliot groaned loudly. “We could do something stupid like you said a minute ago, we really could accidentally make ourselves not come to the past, if we overshoot the re-entry, or just, I don’t know, think too hard about the wrong thing-- or hum to ourselves, apparently-- while holding it, those keys are really powerful. The Truth Key made Julia physically ill when she touched it.”

“This one is making me physically ill just talking about it,” Eliot whined.

“So I was thinking,” Quentin continued, “before we try to take it out of here, we could work some horomancy as a backstop against our future mistakes. Make it so this always happens, no matter what other shit fucks up, whether it’s us or someone else that tries to mess with the timeline later, to keep us from getting it. Was there anything like that mentioned in class, a sort of persistence spell?”

“Oh Jesus, um… oh god it was so long ago, now…,” He thought for awhile, absentmindedly tucking his long curls behind his ear as Quentin did when he was lost in thought. “There was one called _Forever, My Love_ ,” Eliot rolled his eyes at the sentimentality. “It was like, instead of putting wards around a physical space, it puts horomancy wards around a time, to protect it from any other magic or time travel shit. It’s only meant for a short moment, though, like a single kiss or a confession of love, a perfect date, shit like that. No, wait, that’s only if you cast it alone. I think Victoria got her whole marriage to Albert covered, working with another magician.”

“Wait, so it’s powered by love? Okay, that sounded Disney dumb,” he laughed, as Eliot pretended to swoon with the back of his hand to his forehead, “I just mean, you have to be doing it for love to make it work?”

“I guess so? I never dreamed I’d have a pop quiz on horomancy, fuck."

“Romantic love or any kind?” It was a real question, because Quentin was forming an idea, but he also hoped it didn’t seem like he was fishing for that to be true. Fortunately, Eliot took him seriously.

“Um, it was created for romantic love, I think? The examples they used were all romantic, but that’s all in the math, I guess. But I’m not sure you could stretch it too abstract, I don’t think ‘love of magic’ or ‘love of this key’ would work.”

“Does it have to be cast first? At the start of the time you want to preserve?” Quentin asked, but he thought, _We are so far into this already, is it too late?_

“No, it’s for after. Usually you don’t know that you’re going to have those kind of moments in advance. But sometimes the effects go back beyond the boundaries slightly, to preserve things that can make the moment possible, I think? Like making your love be born in the first place, stuff like that. I remember Harold or Hank asking the question, anyway, and I remember thinking he was smart, so I think the answer was yes?”

 _I wonder if he was a first-year boy,_ Quentin thought to himself, but brushed it aside. These thoughts came up sometimes, but they were getting easier and easier to deal with, now that they had fallen into their rhythm of renewed friendship. “So we have a window, then, between finding the key and trying to leave with it and risking fucking shit up, to cast the spell. There’s two of us, even though neither of us are horomancers, we still ought to be able the cover all the time we’ve been here.”

“So you want to keep the whole thing, not just… finding the key?” Eliot asked.

“I mean, yeah.” Their eyes met, each thinking of everything they had been through, how their bond had grown over the time they had worked the puzzle. But that was still hard, having only broken up the month before, and they broke eye contact after a moment, and Quentin deflected. “I sure would hate to lose our friendship with Mama, and Wick, and all the rest of our friends. I’d like to keep all that, too, if I could. And anyway, like you said, we can’t just be like ‘oh we love this key so much!’ so… I wonder if our love for Mama would work. It could be like, an anchor to this time.”

“In _Forever, My Love_ it only took the love of the two people in the moment to anchor it.” Eliot said casually, as he blew another smoke ring.

Quentin wondered how casually he meant that, really. “Right, I get that,” he said, “but I think, to get all of it, the village and everything, we need a love that encompasses more than just the yard. Someone who isn’t here, and is connected to everyone else.” _Besides,_ Quentin thought, _where does it all begin and end?_ He didn’t know enough horomancy to be sure to get the boundaries right. _If we based it on us, could echoes go back to our first months at Brakebills? If so, it would clash with Jane’s time loops. And it might make things in the future persistent, too, for at least a while. And what if during that time something happened to Eliot, and he could never change it? Not worth the risk._ “But we have another problem, I think the village might be enchanted already. By the Mosaic.”

“How so?”

“Oh, like no one can say where we are, the deliveries, the fact that people gladly become close to us even though they know we could leave at any moment. Ever notice how that doesn’t seem to bother anyone?” Quentin asked.

“Mama got a bit sad about it once. But yeah, she takes it surprisingly well, despite the fact that we have gotten really close. It’s just… that’s just Mama, too? So it’s hard to tell.”

“Right, people kind of acknowledge it, but it’s not, like, _traumatic_ for anyone. They just accept it, like of course that’s a thing.” Quentin was having trouble describing it. “Like, everyone is super well-adjusted, and if you press hard-- I did with Cleve, once-- it’s like they can’t even process it, or something. It feels a lot like trying to talk about wider Fillory, they get confused by the question.”

“How are you at contraindications of enchantments?” Eliot asked, but his eyes were drifting into a faraway stare, as if he were hardly listening to the answer.

“I can do the math, but… it will be hard, not knowing exactly what enchantment they are under, or who made it. And it might fall away once we get the key, it’s hard to say--”

“Wait, Q, wait, _wait_ \--” Eliot stopped, with both palms on the table and eyes wildly staring at the surface in front of him, trying to remember the class discussion of the chapter he had only skimmed. “The enchantments, that’s… holy shit, Q, fuck, _fuck,”_ he said, running his hands through his hair and staring at Quentin with wonder in his eyes, “ _that’s us_. That’s a part of the spell! People around us can’t do anything that changes the timeline, but not just that, they have to help make it happen so it definitely happens, and… there was something about people blanking out on stuff they couldn’t explain, or something…”

“What?!” Quentin’s heart began to pound, and he tried to keep from getting ahead of himself. “Okay, wait, wait, slow down, it _might_ be us, but not knowing where we are sounds more like a Mosaic enchantment, to keep us from leaving, to keep working on the puzzle.”

“But don’t you see, Q, to preserve this timeline, we can’t be roaming the countryside. I mean, we are two future kings of Fillory, what if we tried to take over Whitespire or make alliances to move against the kingdom?”

And that was the moment that Quentin realized, after more than a year and a half, that Eliot had never stopped being High King of Fillory, not really. He’d been thinking of and rejecting ways to save his land in the past the entire time they’d been here.

“But we can’t because we know we didn’t,” Eliot continued, “and anyway, we’d never be able to create or power a spell that covers all of Fillorian history. God, I need a drink, I am fully nerding out and defending theories to _you_. ‘Dogs and cats, living together’...” he growled, as he got up and went to the hut.

“Localized…” Quentin muttered, lost in thought. “The effects are localized, to cover the village, so… we can’t leave because we’d leave the area of effect, and the simplest way to keep us here is... just to keep everyone from telling us where we are. And the wards! The wards kept everyone else away from the puzzle to preserve us solving it… Holy fuck, El,” he said as Eliot came back out, “I think we really have already done it-- will do it-- and it’s… echoing backward through time, _so we’re living in our own spell_...”

Eliot plunked a bottle and two tankards in front of them, having retrieved them from the house. “It’s, um…” he started, looking at the decanter he’d taken from Mama’s. He shrugged. “It’s green. And ‘packs a fucking mule kick’, in the immortal words of dear Mama. Drink up.”

 

They stopped working on the puzzle, for awhile. They needed to finish preparing _Forever, My Love_ before they found the key, so they may as well stop trying for it until they had. It was good to have a break, but also almost disorienting to keep walking past the empty puzzle after nineteen months of doing four a day.

Quentin grilled Eliot on the clues from the book, which had been vague to start with. Objects of “love”, whatever that meant, and from the time in question, were to be enchanted separately, with cooperative love magic. Then, once they had the key and had so reached the end point of when they wanted to protect, the items were to be assembled in a bowl with “blood and hair, it’s always fucking blood and hair with these spells,” as Eliot said.

“And whose blood and hair? We met Biddy first, really, but…” Quentin trailed off.

“Yeah,” Eliot agreed, “I mean I ‘love her’ like you just ‘love’ little old ladies, but I don’t have strong enough feelings for a spell like this.”

“Me neither. Obviously, out of anyone, it’s Mama, for love reasons. But then we don’t get the first two weeks, and that’s the wagon, without which we would have _starved_ , as everyone likes to remind us.”

“But… on the day I met Mama, I wasn’t starving. I didn’t even get lunch when she offered,” Eliot pointed out. “And I was wearing the duster, which came in the wagon. So… I think that even if we don’t make the first two weeks last, that must be one of those echoes that reaches back, sets the scene, as it were.”

“Okay, we’ll ask Mama. If she’s enchanted, she may _have_ to say yes, is that… a consent issue, do you think?”

“Please don’t undermine my trust in Mama,” Eliot said a little more sharply than he meant to.  “She’s too smart and tough to be enchanted to say or do anything she doesn’t want to, and that is a hill I will die on. Everything she says is her, and please don’t make me doubt that.” Eliot looked genuinely pained, and Quentin got up to sit beside him and hold him.

“I won’t, you’re right, she’s Mama through and through, I promise.” He kissed Eliot’s shoulder. “And anyway, it’s not much to ask, she’d do it for us, I know it.”

“Can we just… never talk about our friends only being so because of magical obligations, like, _ever_ again?” Eliot whispered.

“I promise, c’mere,” Quentin said softly, and pulled him into a full embrace.

 

Quentin worked on the math of all the various enchantments, which took even longer without any magical reference books. Eliot took the time to tend to his garden, put up preserves from Arielle’s deliveries, and clean and rearrange things around the hut. One of them still slept outside, whoever stayed up the latest to read or work, which was usually Quentin. Very rarely, one of them would slip, without a word, into the other’s bed and spoon. They didn’t talk about it.

They decided to hold off on choosing objects for the spell. They didn’t have much, and all of it was just _their stuff_ , which is to say it was all of equal importance and somehow also of not much importance at all.

Once Quentin felt like he had finished the math portion, Eliot helped with creating the tutting for the enchantments, and they practiced together. It was like being back at Brakebills, sitting on the ground cross-legged across from each other, working and trying and failing and laughing.

The final step, to be completed after they found the key, would be gathering up all the items in a bowl, and one of them would sing-- it would be Eliot, no question-- and light the bowl on fire.

Eliot would, in fact, go on to spend the next forty-eight years idly deciding on, and then rejecting, song after song after song for this purpose. Quentin had a few favorites, but didn't press, because as long as Eliot hadn’t chosen a song, Quentin could keep listening to him sing.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're missing Mama and Wick and all the gang, we'll get back there soon, I promise. :)


	14. Arielle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arielle carries less weight around on her deliveries.

It was Arielle’s first day doing deliveries on her own, without Lunk.

And she didn’t miss him at all, his stupid jokes and his stupid muscles and his stupid face. All the preening and flexing, all the bragging and ignorance, all the staring at _every other fucking girl and boy in a mile radius_. She hadn’t really thought he was cheating, though, it seemed more like he just wanted to know they were checking him out too. The whole world was a mirror.

 _Oh, well good, irony,_ she thought, as she was looking in a mirror right then, trying to get her braid to play nice and braid already, _checked that off the list for the day_. She rolled her eyes at herself and pulled it all out again to start over.

Some of them  _were_ returning Lunk’s stares, of course, he wasn’t _so_ stupid that all his efforts to look like muscle-bound tree were for nothing. She had fallen for his (minimal) charms as well. But she didn’t really think anyone else would want to put up with him the way she found herself doing, more and more in the past few months.

And the sex was boring. Lunk was mechanical, lacking finesse, romance, or attention. She hadn’t had an orgasm with him once that she didn’t cause herself. Stupid Lunk.

Good riddance and more’s the pity for the next sucker.

But.

Today was the day she was going to have to face the whole town, the entire population, house by Ember-fucking house, visually displaying for them the status of her romantic life, simply by arriving alone.

The next round, in a few days, that would be easy. That would set a new path forward with each neighbor, _see this is how it always is, completely normal, and yes I’d like to have tea now that I’m not dragging stupid Lunk around._ She really wished today was that day.

Today was going to be the day of worried looks, painted cheeriness, knowing nods, kindly arm pats, friendly hugs, offers of invitation to meet a distant niece or nephew who needed a good woman like her, maybe a casserole. Today was going to suck like a weasel sucks eggs.

But.

The last stop of the day was the Mosaic.

The Mosaic was Eliot, of course, bright and shining Eliot, full of laughter and gossip and plying her with drink when she came to play cards on the nights that Lunk went night fishing. (Or so he had told her. Stupid Lunk.)

But the Mosaic was also Quentin. Sweet, funny Quentin, soft Quentin, with his dimples and strong hands and puppy eyes and soft hair. Quentin with the crooked smile, the respectful distance, the kind attention, _do you need anything? is your chair ok, we could switch if you want._

(Quentin with the strong arms whose biceps curve deliciously and whose hairy forearms ripple when he deals the cards and who doesn’t look like a fucking _tree_ grew fucking _skin_. Stupid Lunk.)

It was a good thing Eliot was so shiny, so fun to watch, because it made trying not to look at Quentin just a bit easier. Trying not to think of how her hip barely touched his as they sat on a bench at the table, how their fingers grazed once when they reached for their dealt hands of cards. Trying not to note where he was in the yard at all times. _Just watch Eliot, shiny, shiny Eliot..._

And she would be really glad to see Quentin, on the day a few days from now, when she could stop pretending she didn’t want to kiss him and kiss him and never stop. Well, she might keep pretending that for a little while, they would need to change from the people they were to each other into something else, and that might take a little patience. But at least she could finally look at him more, pay attention to him more, and go from there.

But today wasn’t that day, today was the day he was going to find out about her and Lunk. And this sloppy braid was apparently the braid she was going to face him in. _Maybe he’ll find it messy-sexy,_ she thought, and then stuck her tongue out at her reflection. Boys always made her stupid too. (And girls. But a girlfriend would just redo your braid.)

“Okay, Biddy, I’m going,” Arielle called out as she gathered her things. “Be good and try not to fix anything while I’m gone.”

“If the idjits would stop bein’ so dumb I wouldn’t have to!” Biddy’s voice rang out from the back parlor as Arielle closed the front door behind her, shook her head and smiled.

 

 _OK, just a few more yards up this hill_ , she thought, as she neared the Mosaic that afternoon. _Maybe I should stop to catch my breath and not be so sweaty. I wonder what my braid is doing now._

She had survived it, the single-woman-on-display day _(Now On Tour! You won’t even have to leave your house to see Single Lady! One day only performance!)._ It hadn’t been that bad, they were all nice people, and they meant well. As the day wore on, she found herself cutting each interaction shorter and shorter just to get to her last stop just that much sooner.

And now she was early. Which meant they wouldn’t be done with the last puzzle, and Eliot was probably asleep while Quentin finished alone. They had started work on it again after three months off to practice magic for some project they wouldn't talk about. She stopped, sat down on a stump on the side of the road, and set down her basket. No shiny Eliot, no buffer, just Quentin. _Okay. Breathe._

She wasn’t scared, she didn’t really get scared. She wasn’t a nervous person, and even in a crisis, she tended to get very calm and determined instead of frightened. But she could get excited, and her excitement at seeing Quenin had built up all day until she had been half-running up the hill, so she definitely needed to cool off and take it down a notch, especially with no Eliot buffer. She fanned herself with her skirt and took deep breaths. Then, remembering there were bears in these trees somewhere, she put her skirt back down to stop flashing the woods, and ate a peach instead.

When she felt sufficiently settled and her brain was trying to get her to redo her braid right there on the side of the road with no mirror, she decided it was time to get moving again. She kept a steady sauntering pace so as not to work herself up again, and finally stepped into the yard.

There was Eliot, asleep in his chair as predicted, and sweet Quentin throwing some tiles and muttering as he wiped sweat out of his eyes with a grimy _(strong)_ hand. She stepped quietly across the puzzle until she stood directly over him.

“Hey,” Quentin said, and looked back at Eliot, but he was still asleep.

“Hey,” Arielle replied, and waited for him to notice, which he did eventually.

“No Lunk today?” he asked, and here it was at last, the moment she just wanted to get through as fast as possible.

“Found him holding someone else’s peaches,” she said dryly, as she had practiced coming up the hill. It was the shortest explanation she could think of.

“Sorry, I-” Quentin said as he swung up to his feet and looked like a lot of people had looked today, the ones who hadn’t heard already, a look that said _what is the nice thing you say to people who got cheated on? I’ve completely forgotten. Oh right it’s--_ “I always thought you were too good for him anyway.” (Arielle had heard this a lot today because, of course, it was true. Stupid Lunk.)

But when their eyes met, she saw something she hadn’t seen all day. Not the sort-of disappointment of the end of an era (only sort-of because Stupid Lunk was stupid) but a little bit of hope for a new one.

And for that, she tossed him a peach.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do so enjoy reverse-engineering the bits of scene from the montage. :)


	15. The Swimming Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a perfect day.

Three weeks later came a day with perfect weather for swimming, hot but not too much so in the shade, with a bright blue sky and a few puffy white clouds that looked like someone had painted them in. High above where Mama and Eliot sat on a small rise, a slight breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees. Below them spread a wide natural swimming hole, with most of the town splashing and laughing in it.

The swimming hole only appeared in the woods for two months each year, and on the first day of its arrival, everyone celebrated by taking the day off to swim. Tassie and Wicklet and their pups  tumbled around this shallow side, where just inches of water spread out over rocks, spraying water as they shook off. In the center of the pool, Barry and Marty had Gana and Gish’s twin girls on their big bear shoulders, having a chicken fight, trying to push each other off. On the far side of the swimming hole was a taller hill that created a cliff, and Cleve had tied a rope to a strong overhanging branch, and Lunk and some others were taking turns swinging out and letting go to drop into the deeper water. Quentin was chasing Arielle around the flat grassy side of the swimming hole, near where Biddy sat on a blanket happily munching a sandwich and watching this game play out with a smile. Quentin was trying to catch Arielle to jump in the water with her, but she danced nimbly away from him, giggling. Squeals, barks, and laughter filled the sweet summer air.

Blankets and remnants of picnics dotted the grass around their side of the swimming hole, but all were empty, their owners enjoying the water. Eliot lounged, barefoot, on a quilt, his Fillorian shirt untied at the neck and open to his chest to catch the breeze. His pant legs were rolled up from a recent walk in the shallow water but he hadn’t felt like swimming, content to not do much of anything but simply watch his friends enjoy themselves. Mama sat in a low chair just off the quilt but in the general boundaries of their picnic, having declared that once sitting on the quilt, “even Barry couldn’t pull me up.” She slowly fanned herself with her wide-brimmed hat she didn’t need to wear here in the shade.

“A perfect day to set in stone,” Eliot sighed pleasantly.

“Gonna make a puzzle pattern out of it?” Mama asked.

“No, I couldn’t get the details in with the how big the tiles are. Which is a shame,” he said, reaching for a waterskin, “because that might be the beauty of all life out there.” He took a swig of water and squinted against the light bouncing back in his eyes from the water’s surface.

Quentin had insisted they both give up smoking (except for the herbs that got them high, on occasion) and day drinking made abstaining from cigarettes more difficult. _So, the healthy life all around,_ he had said ruefully to Mama, but his overall mood seemed to improve after that. Maybe he didn’t need it, she thought, now that he’d stopped running and gunning through life. 

“Well, it doesn’t have us in it, so it can’t be,” Mama said with a smirk.

“That,” Eliot laughed, “is an excellent point. To our radiant beauty,” he added grandly, raising the waterskin in salute and passing it to her.

“So… how’s about this thing with Q and Ari?” Mama said, trying to pry casually.

It failed, in that Eliot gave her a side-eye and a light, slow, mocking clapping of his hands. “How long have you been holding that in?”

She smacked the back of his head with the brim of her hat. “Wouldn’t have had to if you had told me instead of Biddy. So now that I don’t have to be _coy,_ answer the damn question.”

Eliot sighed, but the sigh wasn’t pained. “It’s actually pretty good. Q’s happier than I’ve seen him in ages, the pool of sadness has been really small. I _told_ you,” he said, leaning into her a bit, “what he needed was a woman’s touch.”

Mama just stared, mouth agape, at his profile as he watched the lovers across the water. _Is he seriously this dumb?_ But she was a keeper of secrets-- gossip in, no gossip out-- and so she didn’t correct him. Or start beating the shit out of him with her hat and yelling the obvious into his face, which is what she desperately wanted to do. Instead, she shifted the topic to what she really wanted to know. “And how are _you?_ C’mon, tell Mama the truth, now.”

“Fabulous, darling, as always,” he intoned with a wave of his hand, and she smacked him again with her hat. “Ow! All right, _fine._ Well, I feel several things at once, I feel… for one thing, she’s my friend too. I really like her, having her around, it’s like… she’s not Margo, by any means, but I have missed having a girlfriend. No disrespect, Mama,” he hastened to add before getting hit again, “but I mean, someone who’s around us at the Mosaic more.”

“I get it. A friend your own age. No really--” she said, as he looked pained, “I do actually get it, it’s fine. What we have is special, but it’s different than that. Go on with what you were saying.”

“Okay,” he began, still unsure if he’d said the wrong thing, “So she’s great to have around, and she makes Q happy, which makes everything at the Mosaic easier, honestly.”

“Hope will do that, and love is made of hope.”

“Hmm," he said, as if considering this for the first time.

 _Well, that explains a lot,_ Mama thought. The way she saw it, any romance that doesn't have a future, a sense of moving forward towards something, was bound to wither on the vine. But holding one's lover at arms length-- as Eliot had done, never letting Quentin get too close-- that kills the hope, and with it, the relationship. But that was all water under the bridge now.

“So you sound like you’re not hurting too much, seeing him move on with someone else?” Mama said.

“Well, that’s two questions.”

“Was there a limit?”

“No, I just mean, I can’t answer that straight,” Eliot said, gathering his thoughts. “One, am I hurting? Yes. Watching them kiss is a particularly fun little stab in the heart, _whee!_ good times. But also no, because all I ever wanted was for him to be happy, and he is. So it’s not with me, well, fuck it, that was never going to happen anyway,”-- Mama’s fingers twitched on her hat but she let him continue-- “and at least she’s not getting in the way between us, she’s actually making things better, like we can just forget about all the drama we had and be normal again. The natural order is restored.”

“Hmm," Mama said. "And what was the other question I didn’t know I asked?”

“Seeing him move on. I have to confess I’m wondering why Quentin gets the vacation romance quest package and I don’t. I would write a strongly worded letter if I knew to whom to send it. Two stars on Yelp,” he muttered.

That last sentence went over Mama’s head, as so often happened with Eliot, but she got the gist. “Have you been looking around? Or just moping about it to yourself?”

 _“Looking around,_ hah,” he snorted, “Quentin got his _delivered._ And anyway, just about everyone comes into the tavern and there hasn’t been one that would--" he paused, and Mama wondered if he'd admit that no one else was Quentin, "--make the cut. I just have to face my lot in life, always a bridesmaid and all that.”

“Don’t want me to ask around, see if I can turn anyone up for ya?” Mama asked.

“No, no," he said hurriedly, waving his hand in dismissal, “I’m fine. Can we… not talk about it anymore? I was doing better before we did, to be honest.”

 _Sorry for popping your ostrich head out of the sand,_ Mama thought dryly, but he was right. Some things were better when you left them alone, she knew that better than anyone. “Sure honey, just wanted to make sure you weren’t hiding being in a bad place.”

“Thank you, Mama, really, I’m fine.” He reached up and patted her arm, and then gestured out in front of him as he continued, “I mean, look at this perfect day, it’s like that Lou Reed song, it’s like a Serat painting, how can anyone complain about anything on a day like this? And listen--” Quentin and Arielle’s laughter and squeals echoed up from below, “he’s so happy, it just makes you feel silly for being sad about anything.”

Mama couldn’t help but agree with that. They continued to sit, and watch, not needing to say anything to fully enjoy each other’s company, just enjoying the quiet around them and the noises from the water.

But after some time, Eliot began to fidget a bit, and Mama got the sense something was coming. Maybe he wasn’t finished talking about Quentin after all. What he said next was the last thing she expected.

“Mama, can I ask you something?” he began, and she nodded. “If you could freeze a moment in time-- not so you’d live in it forever but just that you knew it was out there somewhere, always happening and could never, ever be changed… would you do it?”

“Isn’t that what the past is?”

“Hmm.” 

“I suppose a man who went on a time journey might see these things as a little more in flux, though,” she added cautiously.

“I suppose so,” Eliot agreed, not meeting her eyes.

“Does a man like that… do you think,” Mama said, making it clear she didn’t mean him and also that she definitely did, “jump around changing things a lot, if he can? Erasing the bad?”

“No, no, it rarely works like that. Not for anyone I know, anyway,” Eliot said. “Time journeys I’ve known-- heard of,” he hastened to correct himself, “have come in bigger swings, like a year re-lived over and over in a loop, or people who end up decades in the past. And usually it’s not, unfortunately, anything to do with the people stuck in it, they’re just collateral damage.”

A loud squeal rose above the din, and one of the twins splashed down into the water.as her sister cheered in triumph, fists pumping the sky.

“So a man like that… or any of us, really, if you think about it,” Mama mused, “is at risk of having their past taken from them.”

“You’ve hit upon the song of the day, Mama,” Eliot sighed. “So how about it? Would you protect your past if you could?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Mama declared.

“Even though-- even though you lost him?” Eliot said tentatively. They hadn’t _really_ talked about her late husband. Mama had always played her cards close to her chest on that subject.

“But I had him, too, don’t forget that,” she said, and her mind was flashing images at her, blocking her view of the swimming hole-- _him walking into the barn the first time, him walking beside her laughing with his head back, his eyes close up, his bearded mouth on hers, him crying at the handfasting looking nervous and relieved all at once, his arms in the moonlight, his face as she slammed the door, his eager laughing kisses when they made up, the knock at the door._

“Do you-- want to talk about that?” 

“Nope.”

“Oh, _I_ had to but you don’t?”

“Eliot,” she said softly and seriously, “If I talk about that I will cry. And if I cry, I might never stop. So I don’t talk about it. That’s just how it is. Okay?”

“Okay...” 

They sat in silence and watched the scene before them. Mama collected herself over time, her hat-as-fan slowing back to a comfortable rhythm. 

 

Quentin and Arielle stumbled up the rise to the quilt, holding hands and laughing at some joke they had shared. He flopped down on it across from Eliot, and propped up on his elbows, as Arielle knelt beside him, in front of Mama. Eliot instinctively put a hand out to touch him, Mama noticed, but he apparently thought better of it and dropped it, casually, back onto the blanket.

“ _Apparently,_ ” Quentin said with a grin, “one may be struck from the peaches and plums delivery list if you displease the deliverywoman by say, throwing her in the water.”

“I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone,” Arielle declared imperiously, raising a finger in the air as if making a decree.

“Well don’t cut _me_ off just because Q fucked up!” Eliot exclaimed in mock horror. “I would _die_ without your peaches and plums, my dear,” and he bowed his head to her, making her smile broadly and bowed back.

“Oh no, _you_ get the best ones, always, Lord Eliot of the Mosaic. _You_ would never do anything that would mess up my clothes.”

“Not without your express consent,” Eliot chuckled, and winked at her. She waggled her eyebrows back at him, making them both laugh, and Quentin groaned, rolled his eyes and changed the subject. 

“The peaches and plums come from just two trees!” Quentin said with nerdy enthusiasm, “They just keep producing fruit, over and over. I always wondered how Biddy managed an orchard.”

“Oh, he knows,” Arielle said, “I told him ages ago.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Quentin slapped Eliot’s shin.

“I thought it was obvious, especially to you,” Eliot said. “Fillorian magic, everything just keeps growing. You must have realized I don’t put that much work into our garden.”

Quentin shrugged. “I figured Indiana boys knew something Brooklyn boys don’t.”

“Oh, we do, _lots_ of things,” Eliot said with a knowing smirk, and Quentin slapped his shin again and gave him a playful don’t-start look, and rolled over onto his back. Eliot stretched and rose. “I’m going to go splash my feet again. Ari, come with?” and he put out a hand to help her up. His tone was cheerful, but his eyes said he wanted to talk to her, so she put her hand in his and stood. They walked off hand-in-hand to the shallow water.

Quentin sighed happily and watched the sky through the trees. “This is a day I’d keep.”

“Seems to be a theme today,” Mama said, and leaned over to fan his face with her hat.

“Oh, did he tell you?”

“No, he very carefully did _not_ tell me that the Magicians are working on a spell to protect this time they’ve put in getting the prize,” Mama said, “but it’s very clever. Your idea, I assume?”

He grinned and nodded, clearly pleased and proud of himself.

“Is it safe?” she asked.

Quentin considered this. “Yes. I mean, it can't _hurt_ anyone, really, it just makes it so no one can ever undo it. And it might not ever be necessary, it’s just a precaution. But I don’t think I should say any more, Eliot wanted to be the one to tell you.”

“He tried, but we got a bit off-topic, and I shut him down,” Mama said, and Quentin tilted his head back to look at her quizzically. “Long story. I’ll let him finish next time.”

Mama heard Arielle squeal, but it was accompanied by a hearty laugh from Eliot. “Now,” she continued with a grin, “tell me about you and Arielle.”

Quentin giggled and put his hands over his face to cover the rising blush and kicked his feet a bit. “Ah, I don’t know! I don’t know what I’m doing and it’s working anyway, which is _so weird_ !” They laughed together before he pulled his hands away and tried to answer her question. “She’s just very easy to be around, there aren’t _complications_ , as you would say. I mean,” he said, rolling over onto his stomach and propping himself up again on his elbows, “she’s not a doormat, she has her own ideas about things and stands up for herself, but she’s not… she’s not all sharp edges like Alice, or walled-off like Eliot, she’s… very _present,_ if that makes any sense.”

“It does indeed,” Mama said, _and a flash of him walking beside her laughing_ popped into her head again. “I’m happy for you, honey.”

“Well, what’s that thing you say about cups and lips--”

“Many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip?”

“Yes, that one. Many a slip. I’m sure I’ll find some way to fuck it up,” Quentin sighed.

“Yes, I’m sure you will, if you go into it with that attitude,” Mama cautioned.

“You’re right, you. are. _right._ I’m not going to-- oh shit, I was going to say _overthink it_. It's just that-- everything is so nice? I don't want to spoil it or like spook her off or anything--"

Mama wondered if he was going to put those pieces together, but he went on, oblivious, as usual.

"--so I'm just going with it,” he declared, “for as long as it lasts. I doubt she’d want anything serious with someone who could leave any day anyway, even though that never seems to happen.”

“You could take her with you,” Mama pointed out, and Quentin’s eyes widened and he grew silent in thought.

 

*

Arielle and Eliot kicked and splashed in the water, holding hands to keep steady as the rocks were a bit slippery with moss. “Dance with me,” he said in his grand manner, and she giggled and let him pull her into a proper ballroom-dancing stance. He was so much taller, she had to stand on her toes to keep him up straight. She looked up into his pretty hazel eyes, alight with the silliness of the moment, and he hummed a few bars to help her feel the rhythm. Then began to lead her, slowly and carefully, into a waltz, both of them watching their feet and together choosing the next safe rock to step to.

“ _Just a perfect day,_ ” Eliot sang, “ _Drink Sangria in the park… And then later… When it gets dark, we go home…_ ” they laughed as he nearly slipped and she tried to steady him with the hand on his shoulder, “ _Oh, it's such a perfect day… I'm glad I spent it with you… Oh, such a perfect day… You just keep me hanging on…You just keep me hanging on..._ ” he crooned and tried to twirl her,  but then she squealed as she slipped and he, laughing with her, caught her around the waist and pulled her close to him to steady her.

As they stood there, looking into each other’s eyes, the laughter died out and a calm quiet surrounded them. Eliot said softly, “Ari, please don’t hurt him.”

“You love him.” Arielle still didn’t fully understand this thing between the two men, but she felt it, this deep underlying love and care for one another that she’d never seen before in any two people.

“I do. Not in any way that would get between you, but I do. And his happiness is more important to me than anything.”

“I understand,” she said with solemn eyes, even though she didn’t. But she knew in her heart what he meant in this moment, and lifted up even further on her toes to kiss his cheek to thank him.

Before she could pull away, he murmured into her ear, “I like you a hell of a lot, too, so don’t you get hurt either.”

At this she tightened her arms around his neck, into a full hug, and whispered into his curls, “Nor you.”

He pulled her up off her feet and held her tight around the waist. They stood in this embrace for a long time, him ankle deep in water while her toes grazed its surface, with the sun beating down on them, as they could feel their hearts melt into a new understanding and a deeper friendship than they had ever had between them.

 

*

“ _I_ got her wet,” Eliot smirked as they reached the quilt, and Quentin kicked at him for the dirty joke and everyone laughed. Eliot caught eyes with Arielle and they smiled knowingly at each other for a moment. She reached over and entwined her fingers with Quentin’s.

  
_A day worth keeping,_ Mama thought, and fanned herself, smiling.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is "Perfect Day" by Lou Reed from his album Transformer, 1972. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wxI4KK9ZYo


	16. Boys and Girls, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bi-erasure doesn't translate.

Quentin was helping Arielle fill and sort baskets of fruit one morning in Biddy’s sunny kitchen. The baskets, arranged in rows across the long kitchen island, weren’t enchanted, after all. There was one for each household and she pulled a wagon loaded with them.

“I don’t bring the wagon up to the Mosaic because it’s my last stop, there’s no point in pulling it up the hill, I just leave it near the path back home,” Arielle said.

Quentin thought, _Toto, we aren’t in Brooklyn anymore._ “New House doesn’t get deliveries?”

“I drop those off in town with Nalie at the school or Hund at his shop if she’s going to stay late.” Arielle stopped and frowned, “Didn’t we have enough for six peaches per basket? Why are we short?”

“Oh shit, Biddy asked for one on her way through to the parlor, I didn’t know,” Quentin stammered.

But Arielle was already yelling into the hall. “Biddy! Dammit, woman, these peaches are for the _town!”_

“Well, go pick some more then!” Biddy called back in her thin voice. “And get me another one while you’re out there.”

Arielle huffed and rolled her eyes and started to stomp off for the back door.

“And two more plums!” Quentin called after her, “We’re short those too.” Once she was out the door he added softly, “but those were me…” and swiveled back around on his stool to the array of baskets.

When she returned, she was almost in mid-sentence, “At least you weren’t the one eating them, when I lived in Town--"

 _Not saying the name again,_ Quentin noted, still trying to work out where they were in Fillory.  _Does she think_ _she’s_ saying _the name,_   _or does the enchantment make her think that_ is _the name?_

"--and did deliveries for Aunt Essie’s bakery, my ex used to eat half the stock when I wasn’t looking. That girl had a bottomless stomach, and never gained a pound.” Arielle set down the basket and began distributing the fruit.

“What happened with her, I mean, if it’s okay I ask,” Quentin said.

“We both moved. Her first, she went to Bigger Town--”

 _Okay, that_ can't  _be the name,_ he thought.

“--and then right after that, Essie passed and I moved here to be with Biddy. So we lost touch. It happens,” she shrugged. “that how it usually happens for me, anyway. I think I was with Stupid Lunk as long as I was just because neither of us ever had to move, and I didn’t know how to end it any other way.”

“That surprises me honestly, I would think people here would just, I don’t know, stay in the shire,” Quentin said.

“We aren’t the weird little Hobbit people in your story, Q!” she laughed, “We go where there’s work, where we’re needed, where there’s room. Takes a bit of moving around to find a place to settle. Only need one of each kind of shop per town, you know, that kind of thing.”

Quentin thought of Manhattan, all glittering lights and 24-hour everything, and smiled to himself. It still caught him off guard, sometimes, how different Fillory was. “I take your point,” he said. She had told him weeks ago that her parents had passed away when she was younger, and she’d been bouncing from aunt to aunt, but he didn’t exactly know how that had gone until now. But there was something else he had to know about.

“Hey, um, hey," he began. "I don’t want to make it weird, because it obviously isn’t for you and it _totally_ isn’t for me, but--” 

“Sweetheart, you’re making it weird,” she interjected kindly. “What is it?”

“Okay, so like, you date men and women.”

Arielle looked at him, confused. “Yes…” 

“And it’s like, equal for you, like, not one more than the other?”

“I love who I love, Q, don’t you?”

“Yes!” he practically hissed with excitement. “See, that’s what I mean, I feel that way too! But no one I know seems to get that.”

“Not even Eliot?" She took the stool next to Quentin.

“I don’t think so! Not even after-- well, I mean, we were together for awhile, sort of, here at the Mosaic, he didn’t really want to,” _oh shit,_ Quentin thought as this all tumbled out of him and he couldn’t stop it, but also figured she needed to know, “because you know he’s, I mean, I’m not really his type of guy, and anyway,” _fuck, fuck,_ he thought, _get to the fucking point, Coldwater,_ “here’s the thing, the real thing I’m trying to get at.” He took a breath and started again. “Okay, where I’m from, many people--not all, but lots-- just prefer one gender. Like Eliot likes guys. And I don’t know, my dad, for example, likes women. It’s like, pretty cut and dry for them. I mean, Eliot, he like, _might_ have sex with a girl-- I’m pretty sure he did with Margo, sometimes?-- or with a girl involved-- I _know_ he did _that_ with Margo, because, ugh, nevermind-- okay-- the point is, if he’s going to get into a relationship, he’d want a guy. And my dad would want a woman. Jesus, my dad would never even _consider_ having sex with a man. You know?”

“Yes... we have that here too, but you say this is _most_ of the people? Here it’s like, five percent of people, something like that. Some people think that’s weird, but I don’t,” she hastened to add, “I support whatever people want to do. I even put a sign in our bakery window saying so.” She seemed pretty proud of herself for her inclusivity, and for a moment, she reminded him of Fen.

“For us, I don’t know numbers. The thing is, our society, we used to be big on rules about this stuff, you _had_ to like the opposite gender _only_ or you were considered a freak, there was something wrong with you. They had all these horrible medical treatments and prayer and stuff to try to ‘fix’ you and make you that way--”

Arielle gasped and put a hand to her mouth. This was horrible to hear.

“Don’t worry, it’s not like that anymore,” Quentin shrugged. “Mostly. Still in some places, I guess. But the city I’m from, not so much. And now all of the doctors, healers, who aren’t quacks, and many of the people accept that some people prefer the same gender, and in my lifetime we’ve made same-sex marriage and adoption legal--”

“Wait, wait, they couldn’t get _married?!_ What the fuck is wrong with this place that you’re from, Q?!” Arielle was shocked.

“Well, no. I mean, like I said there were a lot of rules,” Quentin said. “Hell, you could get arrested and put in jail just for having sex one time with the same gender right up until-- geez, I was 11, I guess-- and then a judge struck it down in court and all the laws had to change.”

“Ember’s balls, Q, that is, that is just… I don’t know what to say.” Arielle put her hand lightly on his on the counter.

“It’s not like that anymore, it’s fine. Mostly. Anyway, I didn’t mean to get into all of that except to give you context, it’s like _ingrained_ in our society that you like one gender. And then even when that expanded into two possible genders, it’s like… we can’t shake that old idea that you should pick one. That you should have to fit neatly into a box with a label, _this is you_. It’s not even always _mean,_ like it... makes people feel better about the world if they can organize it and label it for themselves, so they know what to expect.”

“But you’re not like that, you're _normal--"_ Arielle said, and then shook her head. "Oh gods, I didn’t mean it like that, shame on me, I just mean, you just love who you love like most people. Here, I mean.”

Quentin looked into her sweet brown eyes and wanted to kiss her. _Normal,_ he thought, in awe.

“Now, about Eliot,” Arielle began, “I really don’t mean to pry but how does he not understand this when you were… together? I just can’t follow that part. If it’s okay we talk about this,” she added.

“It is, we should, it’s been kinda eating at me that you didn’t know about us, and I didn’t know how to bring it up. And I’ve needed to talk to someone about it, anyway, and I feel weird talking to Mama because she’s closer with Eliot. Um, can we eat these plums and then get more? Oh hey, am I making you late?”

“It’s fine, they’re peaches and plums, not critical medical supplies for the war front. No one will care,” she said, grabbing a peach for herself and a plum for him. “Now, explain how Stupid Eliot is being stupid?”

“Well, I’m not sure exactly. But I think he’s been doing this thing, this thing we have where we’re from, that people don’t believe you when you say you’re bisexual. That’s what we call it to like both genders,” he explained.

She nodded. “I get it. We don’t… really have a name for it.”

“Wow that is just, yeah, okay. So this thing, we call it bi-erasure, where no one can accept it, almost like an enchantment, they can’t process what you’re saying. The straights-- that’s what we call people who like the opposite gender only--”

“So many names, how do you keep track of it all?”

“I know,” Quentin said, rolling his eyes. “And there’s so many more. Anyway, the straights think of you as gay-- that’s liking the same gender only--” and Arielle spit out a bit of peach when she laughed suddenly “--stay with me, now, I know, it’s crazy--” and then they were both laughing together, because it was starting to sound crazy even to Quentin now that he said it out loud, “they think of you as gay because, gasp, you like the same gender, so you must just be lying to everyone and yourself that you still like the opposite gender.” Quentin was starting to tear up a bit from laughing, or possibly relief at finally laughing about it. “But the gays think of you as straight because you won’t like, I don’t know, _stay gay_ or something. Like if you ever date a woman then like you gave up on being gay so you’re not _really_ gay, or gay _enough,_ I know, right? Ari, okay, okay--”

Arielle was struggling to breathe from laughing so hard and coughing on the peach and Quentin thumped her back. “I’m not going to tell you the next part until you get ahold of yourself, young lady,” he laughed.

“By Ember’s hooves, there’s _more?”_ she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and tried to get ahold of herself.

“People will count up how many you’ve dated of each gender and then decide that’s what you want most,” Quentin said, and sent Arielle into a whole new spasm of laughter such that he had to catch her to keep her from falling off her stool.

“No, they don’t, that’s crazy, you’re making that up,” she said when she recovered, slapping his woodenshoulder in admonishment and suddenly very aware that she was in his arms.

“I swear to god-- gods-- Ember,” he laughed, and kissed her smiling mouth, because it suddenly felt very much like that was called for, as close as they were. She happily kissed him back, licking her tongue into his mouth briefly, but then pulled back from him.

“Quentin Coldwater,” she said in mock sternness. “We have important fruit deliveries to make, it’s vital to the health of--” and then she melted into his arms he stopped her with a long and passionate kiss. He could kiss her forever.

 

Later, after they’d parted company so she could make her rounds and he could go back to work on the puzzle, and each had worked a long hard day, Quentin walked Arielle home, hands clasped and swinging.

“Hey, listen, Q,” Arielle said, “What we were talking about this morning, with the bi-ignoring thing--”

“Bi-erasure.”

“Yes, that. I just wanted to say I see what you mean, now. Eliot said something today I wouldn’t have taken that way until you told me, he said, ‘Now you’re here so all's right with the world’-- which is nice and all,” she hastened to add, “but now I think he meant because you’re dating a woman!”

“Yeah, see!” Quentin exclaimed, “That’s what I’m talking about! I don’t always catch these little things he says because, I don’t know, I’m so used to it, I guess, from everyone, but since you and I have been together he does it more, or the things he says are more direct, or something.”

“So does he think that because he did the counting thing?”

“Oh is this where we are now? Where we tell each other our history with love?” he teased, and bumped her shoulder with his as he squeezed her hand. They hadn’t done more than fall forever into kisses, but Quentin didn’t care because it was just so heavenly. But now that she had brought it up, maybe they should cover this ground before they went any further. 

“I think so, yes. But we don’t have time for all that before we get home and you have to go. I don’t know about you, but my story is… not _very_ short, let’s say that,” she winked at him.

“Mine is pretty short, honestly, but I suppose maybe… a candlelight picnic on week’s end night? Eliot will be at the tavern.”

“On the Mosaic?” She squeezed his hand.

“Um, no,” he flushed, _the kisses, that’s for us, only us_. “I want to get away, anyway, Anywhere you choose.”

“Swimming hole’s still here. No one goes at night, usually.”

 _Night swimming,_ Quentin thought, and a thrill ran up his middle. “Perfect,” he said, as he kissed her head.

“But can we… I hope this is okay, but can we talk about Eliot now, just a little bit? I’m still stuck on this bi-erasure nonsense. So you two--” and she made a little whistle that made Quentin laugh, “but because you date girls he didn’t what, believe you liked it? How does that work?”

“Honestly, the longer I talk to you, the less I get it either. I guess it's because _he_ has more of a preference, he assumes I do too?” Quentin wondered why this conversation didn't want to make him crawl in a hole. Ari was so direct, she just made everything so _easy._ And after Eliot's guessing games, it felt so good to talk. "But if he had decided I was straight this whole time, then, yeah, I don't know, somehow I can see him thinking that I was just getting off to whatever was closest, I guess? He and I have a special talent in not talking about stuff." He sighed, and Arielle squeezed his arm. "I do know that it's awfully easy for people to just push us aside, think we don't know what we want, decide for us who we are."  He laughed wildly, realizing, “Oh my god, Ari, for years before we got here, he would flirt with me just to make me squirm, which I loved, to be perfectly honest, but he didn’t get-- he thought I was squirming because I was _straight,_ but I was squirming because I was _shy._ Oh, Eliot, you dumb motherfucker… and me too, I guess…” Quentin chuckled to himself. That first year of Brakebills felt a world away, which it was, he supposed. The fact that this had wider implications of what Eliot must have thought when he moaned and melted under El’s touch was going to have to be something he thought about on the walk home, and so for now he pushed it aside. “To be fair, I had a thing on and off with a woman that whole time, so…”

“Save it for the picnic, sweetheart,” she said as she leaned in to kiss his cheek. “And anyway, that _isn’t_ fair, so _mluh”_ she stuck her tongue out, “on Stupid Eliot.”

“Yes, I agree. And I kinda love that you can just talk about all this so freely," he smiled at her.

“Of course! It’s you, it’s the experiences that make you, you. And after we share, I will know you better, and when I know you better…” she leaned in again to put her mouth to his ear and purred, “there could be night swimming.”

Quentin flushed, both at the night swimming and the mind-reading, and squeezed her hand, then realizing that wasn’t enough, stopped them and curved a hand around her neck to pull her close and fall forever into a kiss.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some stuff to get off my chest. :)


	17. Boys and Girls, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot gets schooled.

Ten days later at the Mosaic dinner table, Quentin pushed away his plate and accepted another refill of wine from Eliot. They'd had a few, already. Quentin and Arielle sat across from each other, playing footsie under the table with their bare toes, while Eliot was pushed back from the head of the table, between them.

Arielle flashed Quentin a look, and he didn’t know what it meant, but she’d had a couple of glasses of wine, and it seemed something was about to happen.

“So _Quentin,_ back to what I was asking when Eliot was getting more wine--” she hadn’t asked anything, they had been kissing, “-- _I_ was saying I like kissing girls because their mouths are so soft, and what was that you were going to say?”

 _Oh fuck, I suck at improv,_ Quentin thought, and _I can’t believe you_ and _you are fucking adorable right now,_ and said, “Oh, right, um--”

But he had taken too long so Arielle jumped back in. “Okay, so you were saying that men's mouths can be just as soft, like Eliot's, although it's not quite the same as a girl-- but their stubble scrapes you up and I _completely_ agree with that.”

Eliot just stared at her, with his mouth open. 

Arielle had her eyes locked on Quentin, silently goading him to take it and run with it.

“It’s just, I mean I do kind of like the scraping,” Quentin said tentatively, hoping that once he’d entered this game he could keep up, and drank some more of his wine. “It hurts a little, but like, you definitely know you’ve been kissed by a _man,_ you know, it has that certain _tingle_ to it--” _holy fuck what am I saying right now_  “--that makes it special.” He looked at her in prayer that she had some way back out of this conversation.

But Arielle was doubling down. “Oh yeah, I know what you mean, especially,” she leaned in and motioned for him to lean in too, and said in a stage whisper, _“on the insides of your thighs.”_

This close to her, staring into her eyes, and probably the wine, made him brave. He too spoke low and serious. “That is not as much of a problem for two men,” he said, looking her square in the eye, “unless he’s getting very _adventurous,_ if you know what I mean. But of course,” he just could not _believe_ he was able to keep this going, “that’s when you’re glad for that extra tingle.”

They both broke up at this and lifted up, Arielle almost cackling with delight, and when she raised her tankard, he clinked his to it.

Eliot still had not said a word, but he gulped down his wine.

“Well you should know, dear Q,” Arielle mused, refusing to look at Eliot and letting him continue to twist. “I wish they had your ‘undergrad’ here, it sounds like a place to get in all kinds of good trouble.”

Eliot put down the wine. Quentin stole a glance at him, but his face was unreadable.

“Oh, yes, it was that.” _Probably, for other people with any kind of game at all,_ Quentin thought, _it was just a couple of boys and a couple of girls for me._ “Speaking of trouble,” he rose and offered Arielle his hand, and as they came together at the end of the table he leaned in and whispered in her hair, “Maybe we’ve caused enough for now.” He pulled back to look in her eyes and she seemed slightly disappointed. “I tell you what,” he said softly, “we can take the long way home, and I’ll bring a quilt…”

Since their night of swimming and lovemaking by candlelight, they had taken to finding out of the way spots to be alone.

Arielle purred and kissed him, and said more loudly, “Good night, Eliot, hope you get some sleep tonight!” and Quentin gave her a playful swat as she went past him toward the gate and he went to pull a quilt from the line.

As he went past the table again, Eliot stopped him with a word. “Hey--”

“Hey,” Quentin said and waited.

“So it’s... all out there, now,” Eliot said softly.

“Yes, El,” Quentin sighed.

“You... never talked about it.”

“You wouldn’t let us talk about anything.”  _But even if I had it wouldn’t make me into the kind of guy you want, El, you couldn’t even take me seriously enough to realize what I wanted,_ Quentin thought. “I’m sorry, El, and Ari’s waiting. Just, look, just don’t overthink it, okay?” This was a bit cruel, he knew, but he tried to say it kindly. Although he was starting to feel something he remembered from when he yelled at Julia after finding her in that hedge witch hole. Eliot had golf-clapped him, then. The memory stung. He didn’t want to be that man again. He sighed, and softened. “It’s like Ari says, you love who you love. And it didn’t work out with us, and that’s okay,” he moved closer to pet Eliot’s curls, “I mean, I’m sorry it didn’t but things are so good without it, it’s okay, hey,” he said, raising Eliot’s chin to keep him from looking away, _“it’s okay._ And now I love Ari, too, and everything’s… everything’s good, really good. So let’s not dredge up the past, okay? We’re just making ourselves sad for no reason, and _you’re_ the one who’s always saying not to do that. _”_ Quentin kissed Eliot’s head and patted his shoulder, and walked away to meet Arielle at the road.

And if he took just the tiniest pleasure in being the one to walk away, well, so it goes.

 

*

Mama was at the bar when Eliot came into the tavern, mid-week, which was a surprise. He rushed to her and pulled her by the arm into the kitchen.

“So I’m a complete asshole, Mama,” he hissed, clearly worked up about something.

“El, what’s the matter, what’s going on?”

“Quentin _wanted_ me,Mama!”

Mama smacked his arm with her dishrag. “Well of course, you idiot, what did you think was going on while you were having your way with him? Don't tell me, you thought he was one of those that only liked girls, didn't you?”

“I didn’t-- I mean, what he said, what he _did,_ I just saw it like--”

“Thought you were the god of sex who could make a man think he doesn’t know what he knows? Honest to Ember, Eliot, I knew you had your reasons for not giving in to him, and some of them even make a little sense, but this one, Eliot. You saw him melt like a candle when you even touched his _hair,_ and you chose to make that about you and not about him.”

“It wasn't _like_ that-- I couldn't let-- You don't understand, I had to keep..." he trailed off and stared wildly at the ceiling, running his hands through his hair.

“Eliot, he was right there, whatever this is, you should have talked to him instead of keeping things so... _secretive_ between you.”

“Mama!”

“I let you call me that, but I didn’t take you to raise! You’re a grown man. But if you are so insistent I tell you something, let me tell you this. You had someone good and true who loved you, and you chose not to see it so you could run from it. And I have no idea why you would do that, but the heart protects itself, and if you needed protecting for reasons I don’t know about, I sure wasn’t going to interfere. And lastly I would like to point out that we are _still_ making it about you."

"No, Mama,” Eliot sighed, "it is about him. I hurt him, when I was trying to protect him." He sank onto a stool.

“Or yourself,” Mama said, and Eliot looked up sharply, but then nodded ruefully. She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “El,” she said, more softly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I yelled, this must be like breaking up all over again. I’d offer you a drink but... if it’s like last time, I don’t want to start something you can’t stop.”

“I’m not-- I mean it is, but… I am fucking unbelievably pissed off at myself right now, but I mean, it’s… it’s fine. It’s fine. Last time he was, so low, and he was leaving, and now… he has Ari and he’s happy and things are good now and I-- I’ll be fine.”

“Will you, really?”

“Yes, Mama, it doesn't change anything. I just… I need to do the next thing. I’ll go home, Ari and Quentin will be out for a while, I’ll clean up the dinner dishes, get high, and calm down. Get some sleep. And everything… I guess everything will be the same tomorrow. Oh man, it won’t though,” his voice cracked as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know how I’m even going to _look_ at him. Do you know, two days from now, it’s our… anniversary. Of what happened before. I was totally fine with that, just gonna completely ignore it, but now, I just can't stop thinking about... everything in a new way, and I...” He put his head in his hands.

“Do you want to stay here with me for a few days? I’ve got room.”

“Maybe, I don’t know. Let me go home and take care of things first. I can’t just leave, he will freak out if he thinks I’ve broken our promise and left.”

 

Eliot returned to the tavern an hour later with a bag. “I left him a note, I told him you sent for me but that you were okay, just needed a friend for a day or two. Is that… all right?”

“Yes, honey, and I do, I have particularly good herb and I can’t possibly smoke it alone. Meet me on the upstairs deck after you get your bags in your room.”

“I love you, Mama,” Eliot said, not knowing how else to say it.

“I know. Back at ya.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun teasing Eliot that I kinda forgot he would take it so hard, and maybe Q and Ari were a little harsh. But he'll be okay in a few days, he just needs to regroup. Eliot always lands on his feet.


	18. Ride or Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arielle learns 90s rap.

Eliot heard a quiet thump on his door the next morning. When he opened the door, he found a paper airplane. 

_Dear Eliot,_

_I know Mama doesn’t need company, and I don’t know why you felt you needed to lie about it. But I do know that we were dicks last night, and I’m sorry. Ari is too. She’s recently discovered her inner social justice warrior and I guess I was just still just working through some stuff._

_I should have said something, been more direct, like Ari is. I’m out of room and we should talk for real but I just want you to know that no matter what happened before, being with you like we were changed everything for me, so thank you._

_I love you,_

_Q_

Eliot sat down in a lounge chair on the upper deck of Mama’s tavern, looking out at the rolling fields through a gap in the trees, with the note clutched in his hand, which rested on his outstretched thigh.

_(I should have been more direct)_

Mama appeared with two mugs of tea and set them on the small table as she took the other chair.

“Thanks.” He took a sip, and frowned. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I fucking miss coffee. I took an elective in culinary spells but I never dreamed I’d need one for that.”

“Can’t plan for everything.”

“Hmm.”

_(this thing between us is like a lake)_

“That from Quentin?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really. It’s… personal.”

_(go or stop with the magic I said and he said the telekinesis or what you’re doing with your mouth)_

“Keep or toss?”

Eliot laughed. “Are you asking me if it brings me joy?” They had recently done a deep clean of her storeroom and shed. “It… made me feel better. Not everything was a lie.” He put down his mug and folded the note and slipped into a pocket. He picked up the glass pipe they had left on the table the night before and packed it with herb from the pouch. “Not a lie, that’s not fair, I just mean… some of it really was how I remembered it.”

_(being together like we were)_

He took a hit and used the exhale to hide his sigh. He wondered if it was still a wake-and-bake if you haven’t really slept.

“How are you feeling?” Mama asked.

“About the same amount of shitty I was before,” he said, taking another hit, “but now for whole new reasons.” He paused, and exhaled. “I thought I was keeping Quentin from making a mistake when I _was_ the mistake. It’s a wash, at the moment.”

“Or…,” Mama mused, “you’re the guy who thought you were forgiven for one thing and found out you were forgiven for another. Pass that over here, I ain’t got nothing to do till lunch prep.”

“Take it,” he said, floating her the pipe. He lit it with a tut when she got it to her lips. “These paradigm shifts are already giving me the spins. I played a whole fucking M. Night Shyamalan marathon in my head last night,” he muttered, and shook his head at her raised eyebrows. “Home stuff, sorry. I just mean, looking at things in a new way. And now you just did it again. He did forgive me, didn’t he? That morning here. He shouldn’t have. It’s worse than he thinks.”

_(this thing between us is like a lake… and I fell in)_

Mama shrugged. “It’s Q, he’s like that with people he loves.”

“Hmm.”

_(I just want back in the boat)_

“And Ari? I take it she was involved in this mess. She showed up here first thing looking for you, but you weren’t up yet. She seemed upset.”

“”She had a bit too much to drink and outed Quentin,” but he saw Mama looked confused. “Informed me of his dating history, and I don’t think she asked him first. That’s a bit of a thing, where I’m from. But then, he went along with it, their little joke on me, so.”

“Ari takes after her Aunt Biddy,” Mama said. “Tries to fix everything, and gets a head full of righteous anger at those that caused the problem.”

“Also known back home as the Margo Effect. I am all too familiar.”

“And would you forgive Margo?” Mama asked.

“Margo would never have done that. She would have understood what I really did,” Eliot said. “She probably would have gone to set Q straight, instead. But then, she was my girl and… she and Quentin were close but her loyalty was to me first.” He ran his fingers through his hair. 

“Just like Ari’s is for Quentin.”

“Indeed. Indeed…” he trailed off.

“I need to go downstairs and get started,” Mama said, rising. “What are you gonna do? What’s the next thing?”

Eliot smiled at her reference to his own mantra. “I think I need sleep, I really haven’t had any and my brain is completely scrambled from my _This Is Your Life_ binge watch.”

As usual, Mama had no idea what he meant, but she got it. “See you when I see you then.”

Eliot nodded and looked back out to the fields, his finger crooked into the pocket that held the note.

 

_***** _

Arielle was sweeping Biddy’s kitchen floor that evening as the suns set, when she looked up and saw Eliot _(shiny, shiny Eliot)_ leaning against the door jamb, hands in his pockets and one ankle crossed over the other. His face was unreadable, serious, but relaxed. She froze, _is he here to tell me to fuck right off? I would if I were him._

“We should take a walk, Ari,” he said softly.

 

They walked in silence for several minutes, first up the road past Biddy’s and then down a path into the woods. Eliot seemed to know where he was headed, and Arielle had to trot a little to keep up with his long strides.

 _I’m sorry, El,_ she practiced in her head. _I’m sorry but you just-- No. I’m sorry but you had to know-- No. I’m sorry but Quentin-- No._ She desperately wished he would say something.

“We’re here,” Eliot said finally, as they broke into a clearing. On the far side ran a little stream through the trees, and on this side of the stream were some large rocks. Two of them in particular made a short of giant chair, one flat and one behind it to lean on. He climbed up with just his long legs as if it were a tall step, and turned back to Arielle to help her up. He sat down and leaned against the taller rock, and patted the space beside him. “Sit.”

She did, smoothing her skirt under her. She kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes nervously. Eliot wouldn’t hurt her, of course, there wasn’t danger here, but she wondered if she would leave this clearing in tears anyway. She rather felt like she might cry now.

“This is my favorite smoke spot,” he said, taking Mama’s glass pipe and pouch out of his pocket and packing a bowl. “I come here to be alone. Q doesn’t even know about it. This stuff is strong,” he warned, holding out the pipe, “do you want some?”

“Yessir, I most certainly do,” she said, relieved, but took the pipe from him without meeting his eyes. He lit it for her. She hit it expertly, and exhaled, passing it back. Just the first hit relaxed her shoulders. Mama always had good shit.

“Sir,” he scoffed. “So formal. But I guess that’s my fault, my social graces are out of whack today. Anyway, it’s what the herb is for. Get us past the… whatever.”

“El, I’m s--” Arielle began, but Eliot cut her off.

“I want to tell you how it is, Ari. I don’t know if I can, but I want to try. And you may not want to apologize after. I might not deserve it.” He took a hit, held it, and blew it out in a slow stream through pursed lips. He sighed.

“No, wait, Eliot,” Arielle said, putting her hand down on the rock and leaning on it to make him look at her. “I told you that day we danced in the water that I didn’t want you to get hurt, and I hurt you. So bad you left the Mosaic. Nothing you can say can change that I broke my promise to you.”

Eliot shrugged and looked away again. “Life is pain. And sometimes that’s our fault, and sometimes it’s just… how it is. I wasn’t ever going to get through all of this without hurting, Ari.”

“But I--”

“You bring more joy than pain, my dear,” he said, patting her hand. “Not everyone can say that. Not me, certainly.” He handed her back the pipe. “Hang on to that, I’m way ahead of you.”

He kicked off his shoes as well, and wiggled his toes as she had done. He was clearly trying to gather his thoughts, so Arielle worked on the pipe and waited.

“First, you have to understand, Quentin is wrong, of course I knew he was bi,” Eliot said finally.

“I _knew_ it!” Ari exclaimed, then tamped down her enthusiasm when she saw his serious eyes. “Sorry, I just mean, that didn’t make any sense. You’re his best friend and also there was the… you know--” and she whistled.

But Eliot didn’t laugh at that as Quentin had. “Yes, there was that. But don’t be too happy to win that fight, he wasn’t wrong to think that. That is a real thing that happens where we’re from, and it’s true that even--” he whistled joylessly, “can be overlooked. But I wouldn’t do that. Not because I’m so clever or worldly, but because I care about him, and I _know_ him. I probably know him better than anyone, by now. Even more than Julia.

“But I… I let him think that, because it was easier to deal with. For him, and for me. It was easier to let him be cast in the role of a straight boy, or at least one that would prefer a woman given a choice, than to face that he _could_ want to be with me, but didn’t. And I thought he was pretending the same thing for the same reason, to protect my feelings.”

“Didn’t he want you, though? He told me--”

Eliot held up a hand. “Please, I can’t-- don’t tell me what he told you about us. I can’t even… _think_ about that. I know you talked about it, because of the little _show_ you put on last night, but you don’t know the truth. _He doesn’t know the truth._ And that was the grand revelation, not that he liked sex with men, but that pushing him away like I did was even more cruel than I thought. I _lied_ to him, and he believed me, because he _trusted_ me, because he really loved me. And even now he’s still trying to figure out why I did what I did.”

“Why did you?”

“Jesus, Ari, _fuck,”_ Eliot groaned, put his face in his hands, and kicked his feet with a strangled cry. He jumped up and began to stalk the small space on the rock, towering over Arielle. “Because I don’t get to _keep_ anything! That’s not how this _works._ You think I could just gladly hand him my heart and watch him walk away with it? The last man I did that with _I had to kill._ I mean it. _I snapped his fucking neck, Arielle!_ Oh, not because he had my heart,” he moaned at her horrified look, “because he was going to kill us all, _and I let him in."_ Eliot’s eyes flashed black ice, his voice was a growl. “He was covered in blood, I didn’t even know whose at the time, and Dean Fogg couldn’t stop him, but I knew I could. My rage could level _mountains.”_

And Arielle knew it was true, because she could see it on him, now. All the flourish of drinks, all the dancing and song, all the _shiny, shiny Eliot,_ hid this. A man in so much pain and with so much power he could burn the world. She wanted to hold him but she was afraid to touch him.

He knelt down next to her and grabbed her hand like a drowning man, the ice in his eyes melting to tears. “I’m so sorry, you see, I hurt everyone, even you. And _it knows,_ Ari, the universe knows what I did and what I can do _and so it torments me._ I don’t get to have what everyone else has. And what little I get, I don’t get to _keep._ Quentin… it’s-- it’s different now than I thought. I thought he didn’t want me because he can see how damaged I am, and how everything I have turns to ash, and he was just playing house because it’s so fucking boring here. Sorry--” he shook his head.

“It is, that’s true, it’s okay,” she whispered.

“--and it was all a lark to him because, I don’t know, he felt safe here, like a vacation, he could play and we could just have a pretend romance that wouldn’t end in his pain, or death. And that’s why I punished him-- by not playing along, not all the way, and by pretending he didn’t know what he wanted. Because he didn’t know how serious, how _dangerous_ it was. Except--”

“He did, and he wanted you anyway,” Arielle finished simply.

Eliot collapsed over his knees, covering his face in his hands. “I thought if I gave in, gave myself to him, he would get hurt,” he said finally. “And instead, I hurt him by _not_ giving myself to him. Maybe I’m not being tormented, maybe I’m just a black hole of fucked up mess and I can’t ever keep anything good because I push it away, _I repel it._ And you,” he said, looking up at her with so much pain it broke Arielle’s heart, “I’m pushing you away and hurting you and that will hurt Quentin too and nothing I do will ever be right.”

Arielle overcame her trepidation and put her arm around him, pulling him to his side so he lay with his head in her lap. He began to cry. She stroked his hair, and when it seemed like he was settled down enough to listen, she took a breath, and tried.

“Well, that’s just stupid, Eliot,” she said, and he looked up at her through his tears with wonder in his eyes. “You’re not a _monster,_ just a _man,_ a man who has had a _hell_ of a run of bad luck and sorrow. And I’m so sorry, El, I would stand by your side and burn it all down with you, everything that hurt you, if could. But you can’t fix it by burning down your own life. _You have to let us love you,_ and build it back up again.”

“You say that like it could just happen,” Eliot murmured.

“Well of course it doesn’t just _happen,_ you have to stay, and work at it. You have to let us help you. You have to let us in. And fuck romances and all that shit,” Arielle said, gently cupping his jaw and turning his face so he couldn’t look away from her eyes. “He has your heart anyway, you know that, right? And you have his, and mine, and if you let us, _if you give us your heart we will protect it with our lives_."  Maybe she was getting ahead of herself, speaking for Quentin and adding herself to the mix, and that might not be ethical, but damn it, it was _right,_ and it was _true._ She knew it was true for Quentin, and even if Q broke it off with her tomorrow, she would never leave Eliot, never stop loving him like she did right now.

“That is sweet, you’re sweet,” he sighed, but she pushed him up off her lap and onto his knees, and rose up on her own so she could bridge the distance between them, grabbed him by the arms, and stared him dead in the eye.

“I’m not fucking sweet, listen to me Eliot, this isn’t a game, _I’m your ride or die bitch,”_ she said with stony determination, and her eyes flashed fire, warning him to stop deflecting her.

He looked like he’d been slapped, and then he broke up laughing through his tears. “Who the fuck taught you that phrase? Oh, stupid question, of course.”

“He taught it to me, but I didn’t say it to him. Understand?” she was still dead serious.

“But you’re--”

“Yes, _Eliot,”_ she sighed as if she was tired of explaining this. “We have the romance for the ages. Violins and rose petals, blah blah blah. None of that matters, not really. Love is bigger than that. And my love for you is a white hot fire that will burn anything that tries to hurt you, ever again, even if it’s you. Do. You. Understand. Me.”

“Ride or die?” he said tentatively.

“Ride or die.”

Eliot scooped her into his arms and embraced her so hard she could barely breathe.

 

*

Quentin could hear them before he could see them.

“I need a ride or die bitch...” Eliot.

 _90’s rap?_ Quentin wondered. _Not usually his style, but of course he knows the words._

“I like to rock Prada suits and my ass is fat,” Arielle.

 _What?_ Quentin marveled.

“I need a ride or die bitch...” Eliot.

“I push a Cadillac, um-- truck! with my friends in the back.” Arielle, apparently still learning the words.

“I need a ride or die bitch....” Eliot intoned as they crossed into the yard.

“Smoke 'dro, drink liquor, like to fuck 'til I come!” Arielle shouted, hanging on his arm.

 _Jesus Christ, I should never have left them alone,_ Quentin thought, but he smiled. Whatever this was, it was better than this morning.

“Please take your girl, Q, I can’t spend all _day_ teaching music lessons, I need to cook _dinner._ Ari, you staying?”

“Of course. I’ll send a rabbit to Biddy.”

“Send one to Mama, too, tell her I’m home,” Eliot said as he went into the hut, pulling himself through the doorway as if he were having trouble navigating it.

“Sure thing,” Arielle said, “Just need to take some sips off my boo.” She threw her arms around Quentin, high as a kite, and whispered loudly in his ear, _“I just learned that._ Okay, so, it’s okay now, we fissed-- we fissssed-- my mouth feels so weird right now! We fix-ed it. Also, if you break up with me, I’ll move in here with Eliot, so, deal with _that._ Ooh, I need to sit down.”

Quentin led her to a bench. “Oh Jesus, you two, should I go check on him, or…” he started for the hut, but she pulled him back by an arm.

“Leave him, he’s fine, he’s just really sorry that he _did the bi-ignoring thing,”_ she whispered loudly again, “and he won’t do it again. Oh, I'm  _so high right now, fuuuck._ So don’t ever talk to him about it, he’s embarrassed at being a ‘bad queer’, so just leave it, okay? It’s all fix-ed now. Fix. Ed.”

“And how do we fix you? Hey, Eliot, you broke my girlfriend!” Quentin laughed.

“Not. funny. Q.” Arielle hissed, then pulled Quentin down onto the bench with her and petted his arm in long strokes, enjoying the fabric. “He didn’t break me, I’m his ride or die bitch, didn’t you hear us? And don’t _ever_ say that again. He loves us, and he will never, ever hurt us. And don’t let him say stuff like that either. NO MORE SAD!” she cried out to the heavens.

“Okay, okay, no more sad,” Quentin laughed, confused. He didn’t understand any of this, except for how it felt so familiar, made him think of Margo, and Fen a bit. But he was on board with _no more sad,_ so he let it go. “I have to clean up the tiles, are you okay to sit here? I’m just going to be right over there.”

“Quentin Makepeaches Coldwater, I will be just fine. I just need to eat. And lay down, this bench is so _smooth…”_ she trailed off, as she slid down to lay on it, and after a couple of minutes, she began to snore.

“Shit, the rabbits,” Quentin muttered, and went to the treeline to take care of it. When he returned, he stepped over the puzzle to enter the house, and found Eliot sitting cross-legged on the floor, contemplating two spice bottles as if he’d never seen them before.

“Q!” Eliot grinned widely, as if surprised to see him.

“Did you put one of Josh’s enchantments on the weed, El? You know Ari’s never smoked like that before,” Quentin said.

“Josh’s-- yes. _Yessss…”_ Eliot said, as if he just realized it. “I needed to talk to her, and it was going to be hard, and _it was, it was so hard,_ but…” he trailed off, and then recovered the thread. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m bad, is she okay?”

“She’s fine, and you’re not bad, El,” Quentin said soothingly, remembering Arielle’s warning. “No more sad,” he added, hoping that would make it through the haze.

“No more sad,” Eliot agreed. “No more sad because she loves me, and you love me, and I’m going to give you two my heart and you will protect me. Quentin and Arielle and Arielle and Eliot and Eliot and Q.” He hugged Quentin’s leg, and Quentin petted his hair, as he realized he was going to have to cook dinner, and he might be the only one awake to eat it.

__

“We need to get a glass marble, a big one,” Eliot said as he fixed their supper the next night.

Quentin looked up from his reading. “Oh yeah?”

“I need to make a new pipe for Mama,” Eliot said, “but I need the glass to start with.”

Quentin recalled Alice making that little glass horse from a marble in class, how in that moment Alice  _was_ magic to him, but he felt the distance between that moment and this, all the magic and horror that had happened since. He shook it off. “Did you break hers?”

“No,” Eliot said softly. “I think we should enchant it for the spell. It’s Mama’s, and yesterday with Ari…” he trailed off, then started again. “It’s special. To me. It should go in the bowl.” He gestured to the shelf on the back wall of the hut, where next to their tiny book collection and Eliot’s recipe card box sat a wide, shallow metal bowl Quentin had gotten from Hund. It was still empty.

“Right, um, that’s… right. You’re right.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh, it’s just-- it’s stupid. You’re right.”

“Q.”

“It’s just it’s you and Mama, and you and Ari, it’s not-- it’s stupid, I’m sorry.”

“You’ve smoked out of it too.”

“With you, not with-- them.”

“Damn it, Q!” Eliot snapped. “Not everything is about you! Can’t  _I_ just have something, for once?” He slapped the knife down on the cutting board.

“I said it was stupid!” Quentin snapped back. “You made me say it out loud.”

Eliot closed his eyes, bracing himself with both hands on the counter.“I’m sure you’ll have your own things to add, Q. This one’s mine, I claim it, it’s just how it’s going to be.”   

 _He loves us and he will never hurt us,_ Quentin heard Arielle say in his head, and he put down his book, rose, and approached Eliot from behind, slipping his hands around Eliot’s waist, and kissed his shoulder blade. “I’m sorry, you’re right, I’ll find something, I just haven’t been thinking about it.”

Eliot turned and wrapped Quentin up in his arms, head tucked beneath his chin where he fit so well. He kissed his head. “I don’t think about it much either, leaving, I mean.” He paused. “Do you think we’re enchanted too?”

“Enchanted to do what?” Quentin asked into Eliot’s chest.

“I don’t know, I don’t know what I was saying.” He blinked, and then laughed and swatted Quentin on the behind. “Now get off me and let me cook or we will both starve.”

“I’ll see if Hund can get us a marble,” Quentin said, going back to his reading spot on the bed and picking up his book.

Eliot stole one more glance at the bowl, and then went back to cutting carrots, humming softly to himself, until he finally got to some lyrics that seemed safer to sing out loud.

_But it's just a supercut of us_

_Supercut of us_

_Oh it's just a supercut of us_

_Supercut of us_

_In my head in my head I do everything right_

_I do_

_In my head in my head I do everything right_

_I do_  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is "Ryde or Die, Bitch" by the Lox (2000). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6deOgwlyLs
> 
> Sorry this took me so long, but I had a lot to work through, as did Eliot. 
> 
> Hey, listen, A03ers, thank you backing me up on this story-- ride or die, y'all. Looking forward to your comments, so please chat with me!


	19. Team Queliot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arielle learns survival tactics.

 

Arielle was up t’the Mosaic for dinner, as she often was, nestled into Quentin’s arms on a bench by the outdoor firepit with her legs stretched across to Eliot’s lap, where he was rubbing her feet. Eliot was trying to explain what it was like for them to work the puzzle every day, how they could stand it.

“Do you remember us telling you about television?” he said.

“Magic water reflections that tell stories, I remember,” Arielle nodded.

“Sure...” Eliot said. Arielle hadn’t really understood when Eliot had tried to describe it, but Quentin had patiently explained the water thing to her later, between forever kisses on a quilt, because she couldn’t leave it alone even for that. Apparently he hadn’t told Eliot, because he looked a bit confused, then accepted it with a nod and continued. “Some of them aren’t made-up stories like _Buffy._ Sometimes they show-- visions?” He looked at Quentin, who shrugged and put a hand palm up to say _sure but I don’t know what you’re talking about._ “Reality tv, Q,” he turned back to Arielle. “Visions of real people playing games to compete for prizes.”

“Like football!” Arielle exclaimed, pleased to get a win.

“No, not those kind of games. People may fight, but it’s not _barbaric,”_ Eliot laughed. “This is more like... um, Q?” he looked at him helplessly.

“It’s more about the human drama? I guess? More than the game itself? So it’s like, slower, and you see them living together usually and… it’s more about how they work together-- or don’t--”

“Which is the best part,” Eliot interjected.

“Yeah, it’s edited… okay, put a pin in that for now,” Quentin said with a quick but meaningful look  at Arielle, and she smiled at his attempt to reign in his tangents, a project he was working on. She gave him a quick thumbs up and he grinned, then continued. “It’s more like a story, only instead of someone writing it, you put people in the situation and just see what they do. But like any good story, you want those people to give you drama, and intrigue, and stuff. So they make the situation stressful, and give them challenges to overcome. But unlike football, the game isn’t the important part, it’s just there to give them something to do while the drama plays out.”

“Like your puzzle?” Arielle asked, and the two men exchanged a look.

“In our case, the puzzle matters a lot,” Eliot said. Arielle still did not know what this was all about, they wouldn’t talk about it, but it never bothered her. They were trying to solve the puzzle for a prize. _And it could take them home…_ she started to think, and then blinked. It was for a prize.

“Tell us why you brought up reality tv, El, was there one you were thinking about? Maybe I can help you explain it?” Quentin offered.

“Okay, Fillory Whisperer, what I was trying to say was,” Eliot seemed relieved to speak plainly in tv speak, “we’re Team Queliot on _Survivor: Mosaic.”_

Quentin cocked his head and gave him a look Arielle couldn’t read, especially from this angle, but she could see there was clearly an answer to that look coming back from Eliot, who smiled with a look a little like _take this thing I’m giving you_ and a little like _come at me, Coldwater._ Arielle looked at them quizzically.

“Okay, whew, that’s a lot to unpack. I like the name, Queliot, that’s good,” Quentin said, and took a breath to shake off the moment that had just passed between him and Eliot. “Okay, so there’s this one show, called _Survivor,”_ he explained to Arielle. “They take teams of people out to an island and isolate them, make them live in a sort of primitive way and perform challenges.” He caught Arielle’s look, and laughed. “Okay, I guess that sounds cruel, but you know, they’re competing for prizes and… well, some people will do anything just to be on television I guess.” Arielle looked confused, but he waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter. Just know they are totally onboard--”

“Even when they’re hot and tired and dirty and pissed off and yelling at each other,” Eliot chuckled.

“But like, isn’t that just life?” Arielle asked. “Why would people spend their _chillax_ time watching that? Isn’t that what tv water is an escape from?”

“Ask Eliot,” Quentin shrugged. “I don’t watch them.”

“Well, the challenges were sort of extreme,” Eliot said, “based on the kinds of things you might have to do if you were stranded on a deserted island. It makes you think about what you would do, and how you would act in that situation. How teams work together, or fall apart. Arguments erupt, fingers are pointed, it all gets very heated and dramatic.” Eliot’s eyes were lit up.

Quentin shrugged again, but also squirmed a bit in his seat. “It makes me anxious.” Arielle turned her face and kissed him, and he smiled at her and snuggled her closer. Eliot gave her ankle a little squeeze of thanks. “But I get what you’re saying, El. We’re stuck here, like the contestants, and we have this challenge to do, the puzzle, and we’ve had to figure out how to survive, how to make this a home, how to work together. I haven’t watched the show enough to talk about actual people or teams, but I know that, like Eliot was saying, the teams sort of form these natural balances. Eliot is our Team Leader, he makes decisions, keeps us on track.”

“And you’re the Heart of the Team, Q, you come up with the ideas--”

“Too many, most of the time, which is why El has to make decisions,” Quentin interjected.

“Yes, true, and you believe in the mission, which I’ll confess is hard for me sometimes,” Eliot said, and turned to Arielle. “Quentin has this amazing capacity to commit to a thing, to _stay,_ but I’ve never stayed with anything this long in my life. I ran from my hometown, and undergrad-- was _fun,”_ Eliot said with a wink, squeezing Arielle’s ankle again when her eyes twinkled at the famous undergrad that she didn’t fully understand. “but it was also a whole new set of classes every semester, a new roommate, a new apartment, constant change and flux. Walk away, try a better situation. Then Brakebills, Margo and I ran the Physical Kid’s Cottage--”

“With an iron fist,” Quentin laughed.

“Had to keep all you little chickens in line,” Eliot smirked, then sighed. “That was a good time. But we knew we wouldn’t get to keep that either, past graduation. Then everything went tits up after-- hmm, well, so we didn’t even get to keep that as long as planned.”

 _I don’t get to_ keep _anything,_ Arielle remembered him saying on the rock, and now she was beginning to understand that.

“You stayed in Fillory and tried to be a good-- good at your job, despite how completely fucked up that was,” Quentin said, “and you stayed with Fen, I mean you tried--”

“Well, I made commitments I _intended_ to honor, _yay give me a medal,”_ Eliot mock-cheered quietly.

“You could have walked away when you were-- um, fired? I guess you could say?” Quentin said, “But you fought your way back. And you took on this quest to… make sure everything was fixed? so you could could protect everyone from the… mess?”

Eliot shrugged, waving off the praise. “I thought then that… it meant something, to be… that, that I had found a calling, but now… I’m starting to realize I didn’t know a goddamn thing, about real work--” he laughed, “oh shit if my father heard me say that! Ha!” and shaking his head he continued, “--or _sharing_ that work with someone else, being part of a real _team..._ Maybe that’s what the Cock meant…” he trailed off, and Arielle desperately wanted to know what a cock had to do with it and whose it was but she wanted to hear him finish even more. “Anyway, I wasn’t at that job as long as I’ve been here.” He looked into the fire, his brow furrowed like he was struggling to admit something, and Arielle pressed the sole of one of her feet into his thigh and gave him a look that said, _remember we’ll protect you._ He took a breath and focused his eyes on the mug he’d just picked up. “I’ve never been with anyone as long as I was with Q.” He drank from the mug, hiding his face, and Arielle pressed his thigh again. He continued, looking back at the fire. “Anyway, this challenge, it’s like… ugh, _transformative_ sounds so over the top but I think I am finally getting the hang of this _staying thing,_ and I think that’s down to being on a team with Quentin.” He stole a quick glance at him, and must have taken strength from Quentin’s face because he brightened and smiled at Arielle. “And you, of course, my little ride or die.” He squeezed her ankle again.

“Okay,” Arielle said abruptly, “I have to sit with Eliot now.” She patted Quentin’s arm as she swung her legs down and moved over to Eliot’s bench. He scooted back and she snuggled against his chest, his arm slipping around her waist. “Hmm,” she purred happily, “now I can see Q better,” and she propped her legs up in Quentin’s lap and rubbed his thigh with her foot.

Quentin swallowed hard, perhaps a bit choked up at Eliot’s monologue, but then he blushed and grinned since both of them were watching him with a distinctly Eliot&Margo kind of look, like he was their sweet little puppy, and tucked his hair behind his ear. This was one of their favorite games, _make Q blush and squirm._

“So am I in Team Queliot, too? I want to be on the team,” Arielle said.

“Well, quests are weird,” Eliot said kindly as he stroked her hair back with his free hand.

“We have to do it ourselves, that’s kind of the deal,” Quentin agreed.

“Otherwise, trust me, we would have the whole village up here in shifts,” Eliot laughed. “But yes, you can be on the team, can’t she, Q? In every way but the tiles. And trust me, that makes you the lucky one,” he added into her ear.

“Of course she can,” Quentin said, grinning at her. “Welcome to Team Queliot.”

“And Team Queliot, Team Queliotelle, no, that’s dumb. Queliot is the best,” Arielle said, “Team Queliot is going to _win_ this challenge, because we stay together no matter what. We’re better than those other teams that fight and fall apart. We’re stronger in the mended places, as my Aunt Essie used to say.”

“I think you might get displaced as the Heart of the team, Q,” Eliot said with a smirk.

Quentin put down Arielle’s legs and rose, then knelt between them as he crooked an arm around each of their shoulders and pulled them into a group hug.

“Nope, gonna fight for your title, I see,” Eliot laughed into his hair.

“Shut up,” Quentin said as he gave Eliot a smack on the back. “Okay, sorry, I, um, I have to stand up, my back is just… really close to the fire right now.” And Arielle threw her head back and laughed heartily.

_Team Queliot._

*

A week later, Arielle came flying out of the hut as Eliot was making up his outdoor bed. She’d spent the night, as she often did these days, and usually the first signs of the trio’s day properly beginning was Quentin coming out to fetch water from the well and the sounds of Arielle starting breakfast, which was the only meal she could cook with any proficiency.

But today she sped out of the house in her dressing gown. “El, he-- he’s crying, he _woke up_ crying, and I can’t get him to stop and he wants me out and I don’t know what I did! What’s happening, did he say something to you last night? What did I do?!” Her eyes were wild.

“Oh shit, nothing, nothing, it’s not you, it’s-- hold on, stay here, let me--” and he was into the hut like a shot.

Arielle didn’t listen, like any good female told to stay somewhere, and she followed him slowly and hovered in the doorway.

The hut was only one room, divided mostly by imagination into a cooking/eating area and a bedroom area, so she could see Eliot clearly from the door as he knelt by the bed.

“Q, baby, c’mon, hey, hey, Q,” he was saying, and rubbing Quentin’s back, who was curled into a tight ball facing the wall. Eliot motioned with his hands and fruit lifted out of the basket on the table and began to form a halo over the bed, slowly rotating. “Q, Q, look what I’ve got for you, peaches and plums, remember? All you have to do is watch them. Just lay back, don’t think, everything’s okay--” a sob from Quentin, but he was turning over onto his back obediently, “--just watch, nothing else in the world, Q, nothing matters but this, nothing is on you, you don’t have to do anything, just watch them…”

As Eliot kept murmuring this running mantra, he placed his hand flat on Quentin’s chest, splaying his fingers. “I need you to breathe for me, baby, just breathe and watch them, okay, breathe in one, good... let go, breathe in two, good... let go, breathe in three, good... let go, can you count now? Breathe in--”

“F-four...” Quentin said with a shuddering breath.

“Good... let go, breathe in--”

“Five...”

“Good... let go, breathe in…”

This went on for some time, until Quentin had control over his breathing again, and his chest stopped heaving but his narrowed eyes were staring at the rotating fruit with almost furious attention. Eliot wiped Quentin’s tears from his face with his thumb. “So good, you’re doing so good for me, I’ve got you, you’re safe, I’ve got you…” and then he hesitated. “Do you-- do you want me to get Ari?”

“No!” Quentin cried, and the tears started up again and he clasped his palms to his eyes as his breathing hitched into shuddering sobs again.

“Okay, okay, it’s okay, you don’t have to, no, she’s fine, baby, no--” he said, apparently contradicting whatever quiet sobs from Quentin she couldn’t hear, “you know Ari, she loves you no matter what and nothing phases her, no, I swear, it’s good, it’s fine, she’s fine, you’re fine, I’m here, I’m here, open your eyes, baby, c’mon watch the peaches, don’t think about anything else, just watch-- do you need to breathe for me again?” Quentin nodded with a choked sob. “Okay,” Eliot said soothingly, “C’mon Q, let’s get it back, breathe in one, good... let go..."

Arielle had watched all of this in silence, chewing on her thumb, but now it seemed like the best thing for everyone was for her to clear out, so she backed out of the door and closed it quietly. There was a bucket by the door, they usually used the cleaner one that stayed inside for their morning water but after she knocked the leaves and dirt out of the bottom of this one, she decided it was good enough for face washing, and she went to the well to fill it.

After cleaning herself up, and braiding her hair, she was at a loss. She was still in her dressing gown but her clothes were inside. She sat for a while, then paced for a while, and finally she picked up Quentin’s notebook which he had left on the worktable and started to debate whether she should lay some tiles. _They said they had to do it, but I want to do something to help…_ These two thoughts kept turning in her head, leaving her frozen, standing over the blank puzzle, until finally Eliot slipped out of the hut and closed the door very quietly behind him.

“I’m sorry, Ari, he’s-- he’s basically okay now, I think he’s going to sleep for a little while, he might make it up for lunch, or…” he shrugged helplessly, “not? Might need a day. Are _you_ okay? I know that’s really scary. The first time it happened I was a total mess, I didn’t know it would be like that, never saw anyone wake up crying before.”

“Oh, I’m fine, but Q...” Arielle took the hand Eliot was holding out to her and let him lead her away from the hut. “What happened, El, what is it?”

“It’s nothing, I mean, nothing _happened,_ it’s just his brain, it… breaks.”

 _(crouching down, checking out the lock on the safe at Plover’s creepy manse, hearing Q say those words to Alice, “My brain breaks sometimes,” wanting to reach up and touch him but he wasn’t telling_ me _so I pretended I didn’t hear but he knew I did and I sometimes wonder now if he wasn't telling me all along)_

“What does that mean?” Arielle asked, picturing a brain like a broken teacup, all in pieces.

“Oh sweetie, I’m not a healer, I don’t know. I’m going to grab us a couple of these chairs and let’s take them, ah...over here,” he said and he pointed to the south side of the yard. He picked up the chairs by their backs and walked them over to the treeline, settling them a good distance from the hut. “I just don’t want him to hear us,” he continued, his voice lowered, “and we’re out of the direct sun over here. I’m trying to be careful of that more, in the land of no Shiseido. Oh wait, your clothes--”

“They’re inside, they can wait,” Arielle said, sitting across from him. “But his brain, do we need to _get_ a healer?”

“Won’t help. Nothing can ever really _fix_ him, it’s just… There are so many beautiful, rich, lovely things about Q’s brain, and this is the price, I guess. Nothing ever comes without a price,” he said, and sighed.

“But El, if he’s so sad, maybe I started it, I was snuggling up to his back and he just started crying, and then I realized he wasn’t even awake yet, I don’t know, maybe it’s a reaction to--” _waking up with the wrong person,_ she wanted to say, but everything was chaos already and she didn’t want to make it worse. He caught her look and seemed to read her mind anyway, and took her little hands in his big ones.

“Oh, no Ari, it’s not you, sweetie, I promise,” he said, and kissed her knuckles. “The circumstances don’t change it, it’s not a reflection of reality, or his problems, or how happy he is with his life, it’s just… It’s like his emotions have their own schedule, and sometimes they decide it’s time to cry, or panic, or hate everything, hate himself, without anything from the outside making it happen, although sometimes he will latch on to something that’s actually bothering him and make it all about that, even though it isn’t, really. You can’t reason with him, because it doesn’t come from reason or logic. That’s just whistling into the wind.”

“But you calmed him down…” Arielle said, brow furrowed. She always liked to be prepared for anything, and what if Eliot had gone to the Village this morning and she had been alone?

“Yes, I can sort of… interfere with the cycle, a bit,” he said, and he let go to run his hands through his hair, over his face. “I can get him to control his breathing, I can get him to focus on one small thing, that helps, but I can’t fix him, I just help him ride through it until it passes. And _try_ not to take anything hurtful he says seriously. He’s not lashing out today, today is more… I guess hopeless? Sometimes it’s anger, or panic, those are times when the emotions come with energy, but sometimes it comes without even the strength to get out of bed. It’s all very spin-the-wheel.”

“Oh Ember, that just sounds awful, I-- I just don’t know what to say.”

“It really doesn’t happen very often, it’s just when it does, it-- well. He didn’t tell you?” Eliot said.

“He said he gets sad sometimes, but I thought, you know, we all get sad sometimes? I didn’t know it was like this. He was so… different.”

“No, he’s still Q, underneath it all, but he’s like a boat caught in a storm… and it’s scary for him, too. I think he feels each time like the storm will never pass, even though it will, it always does, but it’s like… he can’t remember that, can’t remember feeling good while it’s happening. He told me once that feels more _real_ than real life, that everything when he felt okay was a lie, and _this_ is true. I just-- try to help him cut through that, I guess, find something _actually_ real, like the fruit, or his breath, or my voice, something he can hang on to outside of himself.”

“You were really good with him,” she said with a bit of wonder in her voice. Eliot was just good at _everything,_ really, but especially taking care of people, even though she knew that flew in the face of how he saw himself.

“Trial and error. It’s not _entirely_ unlike talking someone down from a bad trip, which I spent a night in Ibiza doing with-- oh crap I can’t remember his name. Fernando? Escobar? Something exotic. God,” he laughed, “that night felt like an eternity, I was so bored and done with it but I couldn’t leave him like that. It doesn’t feel like that with Quentin, it’s like, well. Anyway, trial and error, like I said. Just started the peaches and plums trick the last time around, six months or so ago, I guess? I… lose track of time here pretty easily. The breathing trick we’ve done for a while now, that just developed over time.”

“I would ask you to teach me, but… it seems like you two have it worked out, I’m just in the way,” she said, looking down at her hands in her lap and suddenly thinking how useless they were.

“Oh, sweetie,” he said, taking her hands again and smoothing a stray hair out of her eyes. “It’s just-- he still wants to impress you, you know. You’ve seen me at my worst, pretty much, but we’re ride or die,” he smiled as he squeezed her hands, “and I guess… you two are still working it out. And he doesn’t want to mess that up.”

“Should I go?”

“I don’t know, he-- well. I need to watch him, make sure he doesn’t go down with the ship--”

“What does _that_ mean?” Her eyes widened.

“He could… he could try to hurt himself. He wants to, sometimes, when it’s bad, and when it feels like it will never end,” Eliot said carefully, and Arielle gasped. “I won’t let him, Ari, it’s fine, I just need to keep close to him. So if you could… if you could stay I would really love that, I’d love to have backup. But I just… I don’t know what he’ll do when he gets up and finds you still here, will he be embarrassed, or be glad you’re here? I don’t know, we haven’t dealt with this in front of anyone before, except Mama. She watched him for a week once at her place.”

“A _week?”_

“Well. that might have been-- it was an angry-slash-hopeless one, and he said some things, I didn’t handle it well and-- it was a particular mess that took a little longer to clean up than usual. That mess was all my fault, really, we were… having a rough patch. But even with a normal one, it could last a few days, he hasn’t had one longer than three days since the week at Mama’s, though I think some of his worst ones when he was younger were longer, months. But that was before he found out he was a Magician, and I think finding that out made life make a little more sense, generally, maybe? I’m not the one who should be telling you all this, it should be him, really, just not-- not today.” He took a breath, and focused on her eyes again. “What about you, sweetie, what do _you_ need right now? What’s the next thing? Let’s do the next thing.” He squeezed her hands again.

“Um, my clothes are still inside. On top of the dresser. My night bag is next to it. And then the next thing is breakfast, which-- is all in there too. I could go make us something at Biddy’s and bring it back up?”

“Sounds good, I’m starving,” he said, rising and bringing her to her feet. “Bring something that will keep well, he might want to eat later. And I’ll go get your clothes. _On_ the dresser? Really, you should have a drawer by now, that’s a tradition on-- where we’re from, for couples once they get to a certain level. You’re easily drawer-level by now.” He smiled at her.

“Don’t think I should get a drawer until I learn the breathing trick,” she said warily. She still couldn’t fully believe this didn’t have anything to do with waking up next to Quentin.

Eliot stopped and put his arms out, and she gladly folded into them. “You’ll come up with your own tricks, Ari, _with him,”_   he said, and put a kiss on her head. “If I teach you how to ‘handle’ him it would be like… like he’s a naughty child, and he’s _not._ You need to talk with him when he’s better and let _him_ tell you what he needs.” He pulled back to look at her and chewed on his lip. “I will just say one thing, you can kind of tell it’s coming if he starts talking like he can’t do _anything_ right. Sometimes, I don’t know-- sometimes that’s like seeing the storm coming over the hills. He’s always self-deprecating but when it stops being cute and his eyes get serious when he says it-- I don’t know, sometimes it blows over but sometimes this happens after. That probably isn’t much help. You really should talk to him. Now,” he said, giving her a final squeeze, “let’s go do the next thing. I’ll be right back with your clothes.”

Arielle stood there, in her dressing gown, feeling a bit like she was having a dream, although the air was prickly on her skin as the weak sunlight started to heat up, and her bare feet shuffling on the blank puzzle felt reassuring familiar. Her heart, emptied out of panic, was starting to swell with love-- love for her dear, dear Q, lost in the storm, and her shiny, shiny Eliot, who dropped all of his pretense to quietly lead him through it.

Eliot, returning from the hut with her things and the inside bucket, must have seen this on her face because he suddenly dropped his worried look and straightened his back, as if rallying troops. “The next thing, Ari. We do the next thing, and then the next thing after that, and we keep going _no matter what_ because this is what we do for _him,_ so he can be himself again.” He handed her things to her. “And my next thing is to go fill this bucket, so I’ll be out of sight while you change behind the quilts on the line. Then I’ll see you back up here in a bit and we’ll see where we stand. Chop, chop,” he said lightly, and went off to the well.

Arielle watched him walk away and wondered _but who takes care of you_ and resolved that it would be her. _The circle of life,_ as Eliot sometimes sang as he worked. And she went to change and do the next thing, and the next, and however many more after that until Quentin was safe and laughing again and Eliot could go back to being shiny.

_Team Queliot. Stronger in the broken places._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had been chipping away at a chapter all week, the first part of this, and rewatching season 2 and realizing I'd forgotten so much about King Eliot's reign, which was muddling up my point when I tried to include it. And then I woke up today feeling very sure that this whole work was a huge mistake and I didn't understand these characters *at all* and everything I'd written was garbage and you are all so much better writers and what was I even doing and I should delete the whole thing. 
> 
> But if there's anything I've learned from you, your writings about Q and your love and support for each other on this site, it's that I owed it to myself to push through that bullshit and publish something, work through it. 
> 
> So this is what came out, and I'm not trying to speak for everyone with these issues, maybe not even Quentin, maybe just myself. Anyway, it covers a plot point I meant to cover right about now so maybe it will work. If not, maybe I'll replace it when I find better words. Please let me know in the comments what you liked that I should definitely keep.
> 
> I also feel bad that it's just the three of them again, that I'm not using some of our other favorite characters who have sort of fallen by the wayside. I miss Mama too, but I promise you Movie Night next time, with all the gang up t'the Mosaic, and some kind of Fillorian popcorn substitute. :)
> 
> One last note, originally I had written a coda to the previous chapter after posting (one of those shoulda-said moments) and had put it at the top of this chapter. I've since moved it to where it should be, though some of the comments below may reference it.


	20. Arrangements, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A priest walks into a bar.

Mama tied the belt on her black wraparound dress, and tried not to look at herself in the mirror while she felt around the top of the dresser for a necklace that would match. She knew she looked tired, drawn, because she felt it. Drained, from crying last night. Crying for everyone she’d ever had to bury.

And now it was Biddy’s turn. _Shenna._ It was Shenna’s turn.

Shenna with the fiery red hair. Shenna with the flashing smile and the stern look. Shenna who had taught at the one room schoolhouse when Kasia and her husband first moved to town so he could be the woodworker. Shenna who kept all the young people in line, even when they weren’t her students anymore, and even when they had grown to adults. Shenna who became her defender and gossip confidante. Shenna who had held her when he died and she was lost and sobbed in her arms. Shenna who suggested she claim the tavern, and who announced at the town meeting that if anyone had a problem with Kasia running the bar they would have to deal with _her._ Shenna who had never married, and had been the only one who truly understood why Kasia never wanted to marry again. Shenna who got a peach and a plum tree when Essie died so that she would have an excuse for Arielle to come stay with her.

Shenna, who became Ol’ Biddy when her hair went white. Shenna, who one wouldn’t have expected would care for such a disrespectful nickname, but who threw her head back and cackled the first time she heard it from a kid in the village, and who let it stick.

Shenna, who was going to be buried today, finally at rest after a long, full life. Mama sighed deeply, fastening her necklace. She picked up her bag. Tucked inside was a poem Shenna wrote that she was going to read at the funeral. _How many people even knew she was a poet?_ Mama wondered.

Also tucked inside her bag, a very important delivery for her boys. It was a small pouch, with embroidery on the front. Inside the pouch was a lock of her hair. On the back was a bloom of blood. She’d pricked her finger and pressed it to the fabric, thinking hard on the first day she met Eliot, and her first hug with Quentin, and how much she loved her boys. They didn’t _tell_ her she had to think hard while she did it, but it was magic, so she thought it might help. On the front was a design of three initials, wound together in vines and flowers: Q, E, and K. She had vacillated on this, they knew her as Mama, an M, but with magic maybe it was best to be precise, so she chose K for her real name. Reconsidering yet again, she stitched a tiny M into the flowers.

Mama would sometimes forget, while she sewed, what it was for. She never forgot to work on it, she wasn’t forgetting to bring it to them, she never forgot there was a spell in the works to protect the prize. But the idea of them _leaving_ with that prize, that was... _slippery._ The thought would just slide right off of her in the middle of thinking it. Mama was clever, she suspected there was an enchantment there-- it was unusual for her to be confused, even when high. But one thing she knew for certain was that the slippery thought would hurt her heart for the moment she caught it, and then she felt better when it slipped away, and that was not a bad thing, so she never tried to fight to keep it.

She went downstairs and found Eliot setting up for the wake they would hold in the tavern after the funeral.

“Mama, do we have any more of the… whatever was in the blue bottle? Cleve likes it, I wanted to make him his special drink.”

“Why? Has he paid his tab?” Mama snorted. “Storeroom? I think?”

“I looked there already.”

“What about the crates out back? Did we ever unpack those?”

“Oh of course, I forgot there was a delivery this week, I’ll go check those. Are the decorations all right?”

Mama looked around the room. Eliot had moved the tables to one side so people could mingle and visit, and he’d decked out the place in peach and plum blossoms, sprays of flowers on the tables and individual blooms floating above their heads, creating a false ceiling of red and white.

“The enchantment on the floating ones should last until midnight,” he said. “I can recast then if the party’s still going."

“Will they float into the lanterns? I don’t want them to catch fire.”

“They know better than to cross me,” Eliot smirked and threw a stern glance at them. “Don’t you, my lovelies?” The blooms rippled in response. “Good babies,” he murmured, then turned his attention to Mama. “How are you, darling? Love the dress. Let me just…” and he reached for her collar and straightened the back where it had gotten twisted. “There. A study in beauty.”

“Hmm. Well. A study in thank-god-this-still-fits, anyway,” Mama mumbled.

“I’m so sorry, Mama. I know you were close,” Eliot said, and swept her into a hug and rubbed her back.

“How’s Arielle?” she asked into his collarbone. The strength of his arms around her was grounding.

“Coping. You know Ari, she’s a rock, but this was the last of her family, I think she feels a bit lost. She’s got all this to keep busy with, for now. She brought the flowers over and some boxes to store in your attic.”

Mama knew lost. She wondered what Arielle would do with herself now, a choice she herself had to make, once. “Is she back up at the house?”

“Yes, with Q, he’s helping her set up there. Gish and Hund dug the... gravesite.” They had talked the night before about the Village’s custom of burying loved ones on their own property, which had confused Eliot. Apparently where they were from, there was a dedicated place to bury people, all together, which seemed strange to Mama for anyone outside of a city. Buried where you lived made so much more sense. It was your home, after all, the place you had chosen. The tavern had a small burial plot in which laid the previous owners. It strengthened Mama to know they were there, watching over her, making her want to do them proud.

 _He_ was buried there too, her husband. She had made the choice to leave their house and claim the empty tavern very quickly, while she was still in shock and feeling reckless and lost, and losing her mind that they couldn’t host a proper wake for him at their tiny house. She moved their meager belongings (most of which were still in dusty boxes in her attic) before the men had a chance to bring his body back from the woods where they’d been hunting-- a few days’ journey since they had to get a buck wagon and pull it back with him in it. She had them bring him to the tavern to bury him, to keep him close. She worked hard to make him proud, too, and not be sad that she’d lost their little home. It was probably a mistake to make such big decisions in the state she was in at the time. But she couldn’t live in their home without him, and she didn’t know anything about woodworking, and the town needed a tapster, so. Her opening night of the bar was his wake, and Mama knew if she could live through that night, she could live through anything.

“Well, find that bottle and let’s get walking. Funeral is in an hour,” she reminded Eliot.

“I’ll meet you out front,” he said, and gave her a final squeeze and a kiss on the head.

 

*

Quentin was opening and closing drawers in the kitchen of Biddy's house when he heard Arielle raging from the back room.

“Aarrgghh… I hate this house!” Arielle exclaimed. “I can never find a damned thing. Biddy, you old bat, where did you put it?”

“I like it,” Quentin said quietly to himself, although he had rarely passed through more than the kitchen, which held fond memories for him of forever kisses. He moved into the dining room and opened the lower doors of the hutch. “Here, here Ari, I found it.” She came into the room and moved around closer to inspect the tablecloth he held up to her.

“Not _that_ one, the _lace_ one!” Arielle snapped. She was overheated, _overclocked_ asQuentin called it when he felt this way. 

“Ari, sweetheart, breathe, honey,” Quentin said as he caught her by the arm, hesitating to see if she would take the comfort before pulling her close, her back to his front, rubbing her shoulders. “I’m sure she wouldn’t care which one we used.”

“Then why does-- did-- why _is there_ a lace one, if she didn’t care?” Arielle grumbled, but then sighed against his working hands. 

“Okay, point taken. We’ll find it.” He nestled his chin on her shoulder and gave her neck a kiss. “Just take a second for yourself.”

“What time is it?” she asked, some panic coming back into her voice.

“A freckle past a hair,” he said, hugging her waist. She slapped his arm for not making sense. It was a joke his dad used to make when he would look at his wrist and realize he’d forgotten to put on his watch, but that was too much to explain right now. “I mean, I don’t know? The bell in town tolled noon, like an hour ago? Maybe? So like one. Ish?”

“Yes, I understand what an hour past noon is, Quentin,” she snapped again, but this time she sighed and sank back into his arms. “I’m sorry, Q, my mind is full of snakes today.”

It was a hideous image that Quentin had never thought of, but boy did he know that feeling. He squeezed her tighter. “I get it, sweetheart, don’t worry? We’ll get through this. I just want to help. The tablecloth, is that the last thing we need to find?”

“Yes, to find, and then I need to set it up with the candles and ribbons on it, and her things.” There was a tradition in her family to put out some of the deceased’s personal possessions on display, and let mourners take one as a memento.

“Did you decide if you were keeping her painting stuff?” Quentin asked. Biddy was known for creating things, what Eliot called _crafting_ and but Quentin preferred to call  _folk art._ Arielle had taken it up to pass the time with Biddy, until she started spending more and more evenings at the Mosaic.

This made her eyes well up, and she tried to take a breath but it came out in a shudder. As of last night she was caught between wanting to burn it all so she would never have to look at it again and wanting to pull it all around her and sleep in the pile. She had done neither, letting Quentin pull her into her bed and spoon her to sleep.  

“I boxed it when you went home to change. I’ll keep it, I just don’t know when I will be able to open it," she said. "I dropped it off at Mama’s, to keep in her attic, when I took the flowers over there.”

“But you-- I mean, you have this house…?” 

“I told you, I hate this house,” she said, but not angry this time, just resigned. She pulled away to keep searching the dining room for the tablecloth. “And anyway, eventually it will go to the new schoolteacher. I guess. I don’t know. It’s the house for the schoolteacher but then Nalie and Hund built New House and let Biddy stay here, so I don’t know. I guess that’s another fucking thing I have to deal with.”

“But not today. Remember what El says, the next thing, right? So the next thing is the tablecloth, and then setting up the table, and then we just wait for people to arrive.”

“And get the tea made, the wake is at Mama’s but we should have tea. Biddy loved tea. Oh here, here it is,” she said, pulling out a fold of yellowed lace. “I think it was from her Lover’s Dream box,” she added softly, passing a hand over it and really seeing the tatting work for the first time. She caught Quentin’s confused look. “Eliot says you call it a _hope chest?”_ But Quentin shrugged. “A box of things people make you for your marriage before you ever even meet anyone. Quilts and baby blankets and stuff. I guess it’s so that they can take their time making something, in case the wedding comes up quick. Or,” she realized with a clench in her heart, “in case they pass before you get that far in life.”

“Do you have one?” Quentin asked, and immediately wished he hadn’t, as it seemed an awkward question, but Arielle just shrugged.

“Yes, upstairs. My aunts... well, Essie used to knit things for it. I guess Biddy might have added to it since I brought it with me, but I haven’t looked.” 

“Was Biddy married?”

“No, she said she never wanted to take care of anyone, but it wasn’t true, I don’t think. She just never wanted to take care of any _one_ person when she was so busy watching over everyone at once. Nosy old bat,” Arielle added fondly, and patted the cloth in her hands. “I think at the end of each day she just wanted to be by herself.” But this was too close to thoughts of all the nights Arielle had stayed at the Mosaic, and she didn’t have time to get back into that, so she shook it off. “She told me she took everything out to use, and declared ‘the dream is dead, thank Ember!’” she laughed softly.

“I’ll make the tea,” Quentin said. “I can boil water!” he added, to Arielle’s narrowed eyes. “Do we have enough cups for everyone? Oh and a water pitcher, and glasses? Maybe some people will just want water? I could juice some peaches and plums, of course I should have started that earlier. Maybe some peach slices in the tea?”

Arielle sighed. “Let’s put peach slices in the water pitcher. There’s an extra teapot and all the service in the china cabinet. Just put it all out here, on the dining table, and the glasses from the kitchen. If someone doesn’t get one, well, they can wait until New House. We won’t be here all that long after the burial. You go do that and I’ll work on the table.”

Quentin nodded and went to the kitchen, satisfied. Being a bit flustered was his usual state, but playing it up just a smidge and forcing Eliot to make choices was a trick Quentin had learned to steady his friend and make him feel stronger, and he was glad to know it worked on Arielle, too. He’d never had the chance to test it before, she was always so rock steady.

 

*

Eliot held Arielle's hand at the funeral, Quentin on her other side. Mama finished the last line of Biddy's poem, and everyone clapped quietly. Cleve blew his nose loudly into his handkerchief.

The priest of Ember closed the service by inviting the people to come up and place flowers on the body in its open grave, and to peruse the memento table. Eliot couldn’t help but glare at him askance, and as Arielle left to mingle and receive condolences, he folded his arms defiantly across his chest. The only priest Eliot had met in this kingdom had been a con man, tricking a Village not unlike this one into believing he was the only one who could protect him from a shadowbat. And the clergy on Earth had a mixed reputation at best, and some really horrible bigots in his hometown in particular, which made him wary. On top of all this, he had a few choice bones to pick with the god in question, Ember, who after all these years was still ass-fucking his life. Although currently in the most agreeable way.

Quentin leaned into his arm and whispered, “I met him, El, he’s okay.”

“And did you check with the _children_ to see if they agree?” Eliot sneered.

“Eliot, c’mon, we have no reason to think--”

“Plover.”

“Well, yeah, there is that,” Quentin sighed. “Well, Arielle says she knew him in Town, when she lived there, he’s based in that temple. He came into the bakery sometimes, she said he was nice, so.”

“Hmmpf,” Eliot huffed. “I still want to turn the tables and face him on my home court.”

“We- don’t have to-- invite him? Um, home?” Quentin was confused. And he was unused to this Eliot, who had apparently had Very Angry Thoughts about the church, which had never come up before.

“I mean the bar,” Eliot said, eyes narrowed. “Let’s see how he is when he drinks.”

 

The villagers, continuing the sendoff for Biddy, were seated at a very long table in New House’s barn having dinner. Gana and Nalie had spent the morning going from house to house collecting the potluck dishes so they wouldn’t have to be carried around, and had rushed off after the burial service to prepare and heat up everything. The long table was covered in a mish-mash of mismatched tablecloths and was now surrounded by all the townsfolk, eating and laughing and telling stories.

Quentin and Arielle were down at the east end of the table, chatting with Gana and Gish and the priest. Eliot sat at the west end of the table with Mama, with his chair pushed back, legs stretched out, and arms still firmly planted across his chest. He kept an eye on the east end as if waiting for trouble.  

“You alright there?” Mama asked.

“Just wondering why we’ve never seen _him_ around here before,” Eliot said, giving a nod to the priest.

Father Rand was about 30, with a soft face covered in a hipster sort of beard, kind green eyes, plain and ill-fitting clothes over a frame just shorter and slightly less lean than Eliot. He laughed easily and seemed to listen intently.  _Excellent manners for the grift,_ Eliot thought darkly.

“You look like you want to defend your territory. Guarding the kingdom?” Mama said with a grin, nudging him with an elbow.

Eliot looked at her with wide eyes-- _so she does know,_ he thought-- but she cut off the look with a wave of her hand.

“I’m just foolin’ with ya,” she laughed. “Father Rand only comes through when he’s needed. Last time he was here was when that Susie married Lunk, but of course you Mosiac types,” by which she meant Arielle too, “stayed away from all that.”

Eliot nodded in agreement, and then rose. “Time to mingle,” he said, then leaned down to her and lowered his voice, “and do recon.”

 

“Oh, that Father Rand, he can sure make me laugh,” said Wicklet. “He’s got a list of sheep jokes a mile long.”

 

“You haven’t met him yet?” said Gana. “Oh you must. We don’t see enough of him here. The girls love him, he always brings them books from Town.”

 

“Father Rand? He’s a dear,” said Nalie. “He was our priest when Hund and I lived in Town, he  performed our marriage! He said the sweetest things, and all off the top of his head, I’m pretty sure. Also,” she leaned into Eliot and whispered, “don’t tell anyone but I got in a bit of a panic just before the ceremony about giving up my independence and he talked me down, made me feel better about being an equal partner and all that.”

 

Eliot was sure he would get some dirt from Cleve. Cleve tended to believe all kinds of outlandish things. Quentin had once joked that he could run _InfoWars_. Cleve lived in a wagon down by the river on the south side of town, and proclaimed himself the Village’s Procurer of Relaxation and Entertainment-- that is, he was Eliot’s dealer.

“Rand? One of my best customers,” said Cleve. “Remember those candies you enchanted to work like herb but wear off clean in two hours? He bought the entire stash.”

 

“Well?” Mama smirked as Eliot returned to the table, having stalked the area like a big cat all while avoiding the east end.

“Well.” Eliot remained unconvinced. The villagers who were running from a fake Shadowbat probably said the same about their priest.

“Should we head over to the tavern and get ready for everyone to follow? It’ll be dark soon and we should have the lamps lit before people get there, all that.”

“Sure… I think I have something to get ready too.”

 

“I don’t actually care about Ember,” the priest said, and clasped his hand to his mouth in horror.

“Truth spell on your drink, darling,” Eliot said, patting Father Rand’s hand and giving him his best _bless your heart_ smirk.

The crowd, half-tipsy on their second round, cheered as Hund and Gish entered, rumpled and sweaty and dirty, having just finished refilling the grave. Hund waved at everyone and Gish caught Mama’s eye and motioned upstairs, _could they wash up?_ Mama nodded and waved her hand at the stairs.

Father Rand had recovered some of his shock and took the water Eliot slid across the bar to him, gulping it down. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked at Eliot, sizing him up, gathering himself back together.

“So you were saying, you’re a terrible priest, and…” Eliot prompted.

“I’m _not_ a terrible priest, thank you very much. And I do believe _in_ Ember, I just don’t care what he thinks. And, I don’t think he cares what we think, either. You know, this is quite lovely, actually, I’d like to give a sermon on this stuff. It’s very freeing. Keep me away from writing letters to my boss, though,” Rand chuckled.

“You’re not wrong about Ember, he’s a real piece of shit,” Eliot agreed, and continued to size up Rand close-up. He a relaxed vibe about him that reminded him of Josh, and his eyes were even kinder up close. But he couldn’t help but retain his abundant skepticism of his profession. “Then I have to ask, if there’s no point in trying to please him, what is the point of you, then? Just go around lying and passing the plate?”

“I don’t lie. I just edge around the bits that this sweet draught is pulling out of me like golden strings. Ooh, I think it’s making me more poetical, too!” Rand grinned. “Look, here’s the thing, I just want to help people, you know? Help them figure things out, and be with them when they’re sad, when they’re happy, help them just be themselves and not worry so much. Take some of the worry on myself. Walk them through the rites of passage, like Shenna’s funeral, make them feel like it matters. A professional friend, if you will. There’s no other job that does that, except maybe yours. The other stuff is like,” he waved his hand in a circle until he came to it, “the excuse for letting this random guy be your friend, the thing that makes that okay, like this bar between us does for you. Man, I _really_ want to write a sermon right now!

"You know, everyone should try this, at least once," he continued, on a roll now. "Drop all the pretense. Like you, everyone I asked talks about you like you're a sparkling gem, but really you're just an extraordinarily handsome guy--truth spell!" he grinned, "-- who's got the balls to drug a priest to make sure he's good enough for his friends. I get that. You coulda been upfront about it, but," he shrugged. "Maybe you need a dose of your own medicine. Drop the walls. Truth spell! I wish I had more. This stuff is really amazing.”

“I could send you home with some,” Eliot said, bewildered and flustered at being called out.

“What’s amazing?” Quentin said, coming up to the bar.

“Try this!” Rand said, and pushed over the tankard.

Quentin had it to his lips before processing the strangled squawks and swiping hands coming from Eliot.

“Well, fuck, this is going to get interesting,” Eliot sighed. Everything was getting out of hand. “Quentin, I want you to listen to me very carefully. You have just drunk a truth-spelled drink. Be very careful what you--”

“Arielle has to move in with us,” Quentin said abruptly.

“Oh, that’s oh. Um, okay? Why? I mean our _Will and Grace_ could use a Karen, but what is going on?”

“She’s not a Karen. Okay, a _nice_ Karen. A competent Karen? I think this is straying too far from Karen, really. The archetype--”

“Q, focus. Arielle playing _House Flipper.”_ Truth spells only enabled Quentin’s rambling, apparently.

“Yes.” Quentin took a breath. “She hates that house. And I love her, we love her, and she shouldn’t stay down there alone at a house she hates when she could be with us? Where she obviously belongs?”

“Well, that seems simple enough,” the priest said. "Can I have a beer, now?"

“There would be _fornicating,_ Father, and there would be _living in sin,”_ Eliot couldn’t help but sneer as he pulled the tap and slid the tankard over to Rand.

“I don’t know what that means, but the fornicating sounds like a positive development. Maybe children too, then, eh?” Rand elbowed Quentin, who blushed, and then took a drink. “You could get married,” he shrugged, “I’d come marry you if you want.”

“Ugh, hives, I have an allergy and a doctor’s note,” Eliot waved a dishrag at Rand. “But Q, I mean it, you should go home. Or up to the deck, I don’t think anyone’s up there. This will wear off in a hour but it could get very _Gossip Girl_ before then. And stay away from Ari.”

“But I still don’t know what you think, and I care _so much_ about what you think. I know it’s always been our home, and our special place where, you know? All _that_ happened? And I don’t want you to think I don’t care about that, about you, because that was like, whew, _everything,_ but now there’s Ari too? And I just want to _add_ to how special it is by bringing her home.” Quentin was blushing a fiery red, flush down his neck, as it all came tumbling out of his mouth, hands gripping the bar in a sudden desperation.

Rand had put his chin on his palm and was watching this with a happy and rapt attention. “This is better than the play I saw in Town,” he said, and added, “Sorry, truth spell. Totally your fault.”

“Hush, you, _this_ is your fault,” Eliot said, and without warning his hand reached out to slap at the priest’s arm, grazing it with his fingers.

"We'll share him." Rand's face was implacable as he said it, and he took another drink, hiding his face in his mug. 

As he brought the mug back down their eyes met and Eliot quickly broke it-- _what was that?--_ and took a deep breath to shake that off and concentrate on the more important issue at hand. He looked seriously at Quentin. “Q, yes, I completely agree with you. On all counts,” he said patiently, and put one of his hands over one of Quentin’s. “But this just isn’t the time to talk about all that, have you even talked to Ari yet about what she wants? And in your condition, you just shouldn’t-- you shouldn’t be trying to explain yourself now.”

“Seems like now is the perfect time,” Rand offered. “It sounds like you think he’ll start lying later.”

“Eliot is right, Father,” Quentin said because he couldn’t help himself. “I don’t lie, on purpose, usually, most of the time, mostly because I am terrible at it, but there’s a lot of things we’re not supposed to talk about, like our quest and how--”

“Q!” Eliot snapped.

Quentin looked at him like a frightened deer, as he realized what he was doing. “I’m-- um, I’m going to go upstairs now and feel really stupid and hate myself for awhile, and then I’ll probably start getting really mad at Eliot for slipping me truth serum."

"That was him!" Eliot protested, pointing at Rand.

"But you started it, Nancy Drew, which is another thing I plan to be mad about, but right now I--" He stopped, struggling to keep the next bit in, and then failed in the effort. "El, I know that look, and I think you should. I have Ari, it’s only fair, and we like him, and I just want you to be happy. It hurts if I think about it too hard, but it makes sense too. Fuck.  _Fuck._ Okay, shutting up now, going upstairs.” He turned on his heel and walked away with determination. He only hummed a negative and waved his hands, _I’m not talking to you,_ at Hund and Gish who were headed down the stairs as he went up.  

“Funny little duck,” Gish laughed fondly as they passed the bar.

“Shame about your allergy,” Rand said to Eliot, whose ears were now a bright red, “which I am calling you out on. Truth spell! Anyway, I could marry all three of you, it sounds like you have a real thing going.”

“I gave at the office,” Eliot said, inventing a spot on the bar that had to be worked on with a dishrag _right the fuck now,_ and Rand looked perplexed. “I already have one. A wife.”

“And where is she? She doesn’t mind you having an affair with Quentin? I mean, I guess that ended? But it sounded like it was pretty hot. He’s really cute. Great hair, great eyes, great ass... I’m sure yours is too, but you haven’t turned around. Although to be fair I doubt my eyes could make it that far, I bet your back is like a sculpture. Love to run my hands over it. Ember’s balls, I love this truth spell! Really gets to the heart of everything. I don’t usually flirt with tapsters.” He grinned at Eliot, who sank onto his bartender’s stool, his legs no longer taking instruction.

“Is this--” Eliot cleared his throat, which had clenched up. “Is flirting in your job description?”

“Before I answer that, is there still something going on with you and Quentin? Truth spell.”

“Does not apply to questions,” Eliot tried his best to smirk casually, and surreptitiously slid the candle down the bar with his mind to darken the scene and hide his growing flush. “But fair is fair, I suppose, since I drugged you. The answer is no, he’s my best friend, and… and ex, of sorts, and we live together, for work you might say. And he’s with Arielle, who is currently my other best friend. And now possibly my other roommate. So.”

“Currently?” Rand asked.

“We moved. Away from friends, away from--” Eliot took a breath, _might as well get back to this subject,_ “--my wife. Who is more of a friend, which is a long story.” He waved a hand, Rand raised his eyebrows. “It’s been a long time. We’re here working on a project. Don’t know how long it will take, it’s been over two and a half years so far.”

“Almost a whole new life.”

“Almost.”

A long moment passed. Rand stared softly at Eliot, taking him in. Eliot squirmed in his seat and tried not to think about how that beard would feel on his skin.

“You have beautiful eyes. Truth spell.”

“You can’t see them, it’s dim over here.”

“They glow. Truth--”

“Spell,” Eliot finished, flushing harder. “Yes, I’ve heard. Not sure how it’s letting you get away with this, though.”

“Guess it’s true for me,” Rand shrugged, his eyes twinkling. “And anyway it’s all your own fault.”

“You could just stop talking, I’m not asking you anything.” Eliot brushed his curls back behind his ear, using the gesture to wipe away the sweat dripping on his temple. _Why is it so hot in here?_

“Aren’t you, though? I thought you were asking me if priests can flirt. Or have I not answered that yet?”

The blossoms on the ceiling rippled in a shudder and Eliot suddenly thought he might faint. “Empirically, yes. Technically, no,” he said, covertly wringing his dishrag to keep himself steady, then realizing that was probably fairly obvious, he put his forearm on the bar with his hand, casually he hoped, draped on its surface. “Is this a thing that’s allowed?”

“Yes. Not long term, for me, anyway. I travel from village to village, I’m away from home a lot, and I like to give my focus to the people who need me. So I choose not to get into anything serious. But yes, the rules for courtship and sex are the same for me as anyone. I don't act on it very often, the job takes its toll and I like solitude as well, after spending all day with people, sometimes really hard days. It takes someone _particularly_ interesting to get me past that. And now I'm wondering if you find me particularly interesting." He smiled fondly at Eliot, who dipped his head and looked at Rand through his lashes, blushing. "But I think I know the answer. Is that enough truth on that subject? Because I feel like I could keep talking about how I’d really like a cat but I don’t want to leave it at home alone so much but I can’t take it on the road because she'd hate the travel and most places I stay wouldn't let me keep a pet anyway, and I also think you don’t want to hear about that.” Rand put his hand on the bar, palm up, and lightly grazed his pinky along the side of Eliot’s.

“So it hasn’t worn off.” Eliot found his pinky, seemingly of its own accord, winding its way around Rand’s.

“It’s only been thirty minutes. And I think,” Rand said, leaning over closer, his voice low and steady, “I could tell you a lot of true things in thirty minutes.”

_Oh._

 

 

 tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some great discussion in the comments, I edited the chapter to ease into Rand a bit more. :) I tweaked El/Rand and added a scene between the burial and the bar. Welcome to New House. It's potluck, I hope you sent something over. :)
> 
> So, fam, what do we think of Rand? He's not canon, but I thought I could maybe get away with giving our sweet son a treat, he’s been so good. ;) Don't worry, Queliot is endgame, of course. :)
> 
> Here is Shenna's poem that Mama read, I thought it was too long and not really good enough to put in the chapter but also figured you'd be curious. 
> 
> Little faces, sticky fingers  
> Baby fat, growing limbs  
> Wax sticks, torn parchment
> 
> Slipped notes, furtive glances  
> Peach fuzz, outgrown shoes  
> Smoke bombs, giggles
> 
> Warm smiles, serious thoughts  
> Long walks, new muscles  
> Day dreams, learned skills  
> Ribboned weddings, sad goodbyes
> 
> Long letters, strange towns  
> Short visits, stretched dinners  
> Graying hair, empty nest
> 
> Old friends, new blood  
> New aches, old bones  
> Old house, fading memory  
> Quiet rest, tree shade.


	21. Arrangements, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Advanced maneuvers. Some in the dark.

Mama was coming out of the storeroom with more supplies. Wakes never got any easier to throw, given the reason, but she realized sadly that she was getting the hang of them.

“Mama!” Eliot hissed, spinning into the kitchen. “Emergency!”

“Quentin?” Mama asked. He had seemed fine when she left him in the main room with Arielle.

“No. Yes. And. Argh," Eliot cried, pulling at his hair, "[it’s four things and a lizard](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZ-Ov4JitPY&t=01m00s). Quentin’s fine, but he drank a truth spell--”

“Oh great Ember, were you trying to drug Father Rand? Eliot, you great honkin' goose.” She smacked him with her dishrag, but she couldn't help but grin.

“Yes, and I succeeded,” he giggled, and then rolled his eyes comically. "I know, I'm going to hell, but not for this. I'm already on the list. But that’s all-- Thing 2." He began to tick off on his fingers. "Back to Thing 1. Quentin is up on the deck, riding out the truth spell. Thing 3, I don’t know exactly where Arielle is, I think she was in the crowd in the main room but I honestly didn’t look before running in here, but one of us should be with her. Thing 4 is that they need to talk, apparently, but only under supervision to make sure Q doesn’t propose or something.”

“Propose?”

Eliot waved his hand. “Rand brought up marriage, Q brought up Arielle living with us now, and I don’t know where those two data points will match up under truth spell conditions. He just needs to not get ahead of himself by accident. But, back to Thing 2, I need you to cover the bar for a half hour at least--” Eliot giggled to himself as he grabbed Mama by the upper arms, his eyes wild with delight, “and I need Quentin _off that deck.”_

 _Rand now,_ Mama noted, and took in the flush on Eliot’s neck and his wide, hopeful eyes. _Well this is long overdue,_ she thought, _primal screams don’t entirely purge the system._ “You got a delivery?” she smirked.

“Hot and fresh,” Eliot quietly squealed, and kissed Mama on the forehead as she grinned. “And it doesn’t appear to be causing any drama, so, I’m signing for it. Okay, I don’t have time for this, you can tease me about it tomorrow. Just get Q and Ari to sit at the bar, and watch over them.”

“On it.”

“Hurry!”

“Keep it in your pants, horny toad, I got it covered,” Mama pretended to scowl.

 

*

It was Rand’s room that night, the extra room at the tavern which was also the town’s only inn. So he slid casually away from the bar when he saw Mama coming down the stairs with Quentin in tow, and made his way up to the deck and across to the door to his room to be the first one in, as he and Eliot had quickly arranged.

He hesitated, _should I wait out here for him?_ It would give Eliot another chance to reconsider. This was happening so fast.

Rand was feeling the rush of the truth spell, a clarity and openness he hadn’t felt since the weekend he’d spent on break from seminary in the City and he’d taken ground taska root, which bent his reality in six different ways. He didn’t feel much clarity at the time, but when it was over he felt more grounded and more honest than he’d ever felt before, like all the world was hiding in fear and if everyone could let go, if he could let go, everything could be beautiful.

He could see his mistakes clearly, but found it hard to care about them right now. He shouldn’t have drugged Quentin. He shouldn’t be trying to take Eliot to bed when he barely knew him. _Although you did spend the day asking everyone about him,_ his truth pointed out. _And you know he saw you doing it, you’re useless at clandestine maneuvers._ But how could he not? Rand _liked_ him instantly, liked his fierceness and his confidence and the way he _moved,_ and how delicious he felt when he could peel that back slowly and make Eliot squirm. He wanted to chase that feeling, and the sense of how _true_ that was intoxicated him.

 _And you drugged Quentin to find out how he fit into the picture,_ the truth spell reminded him, _and maybe even to get him out of the way._

 _Yes, and I’m sure I’ll feel terrible about that tomorrow,_ it also answered, _but I’m too excited to care right now. And_ _also, there is stuff all over my bed. Not sure what to do about that._

Truth spells were confusing when there were so many truths at once.

He had drifted to the railing, hands in his pockets, gazing out across the river to the fields beyond, glowing softly. Before he could make up his mind about waiting outside, he heard footsteps on the stairs, and turned. _Great Ember, he’s even prettier in the moonlight,_ Rand thought, caught up short by the vision. Eliot stopped. Time stopped.

Then Eliot began to walk slowly to Rand, his hands behind his back. His face was warm and sweet and coy all at once. The moonlight made his skin glow white like marble, and darkened his curls to black. Rand felt his spine melt and he gripped the railing to steady himself.

“Second thoughts, Father?” Eliot said softly. “You’re not waiting inside.”

“Not exactly. The same thought over and over," Rand was able to say, because it was suddenly true. "I haven’t done this since seminary.” Rand blushed and dipped his head. The truth spell wasn’t so lovely when it gave away the game.

“And how long is that?” Eliot leaned a hip against the railing, crossing his legs at the ankles. Close, but not too close. Rand could feel the warmth coming off of him in the cool night air, but they didn’t touch.

Rand raised his head, looking up at Eliot through his lashes. Eliot was looking at him curiously. “Three and a half years,” his truth confessed.

“Come to think of it, it’s been nearly that long for me, too. Picking up a guy at a party, I mean,” Eliot said, waving a hand.

“Oh, I find that hard to believe. You were stunning in candlelight, but you’re ethereal in the moonlight. You must have a line of suitors.”

“How do you _do_ that?” Eliot gasped, nudging him with his shoulder while leaning in closer. “You _know_ I don’t, I saw you talk to my friends. I can only _imagine_ what Ari had to say. Mama surely didn’t say anything, but I bet she gave you the nod or she wouldn’t have helped me. But you’re under my spell!” He grinned at Rand, playfully aghast.

“I did ask about you, yes,” Rand’s truth pushed out, and he nudged Eliot back to cover his blush. “And they said you were available for courtship. That isn’t the same thing as… this sort of thing. I figured you were being stealthy about it for some reason and they just didn’t know.”

“Well, anyway it isn’t a _line,”_ Eliot said, pushing his hand along the railing behind Rand, pulling him directly into his orbit. “Just the one. Not stealthy in the least. And he’s moved on, so. Can we not--” he murmured into Rand’s temple, his soft lips grazing against his skin. The heat of it penetrated down his neck.

“Of course, I’m sorry. Like I said, I’m out of practice. And I _am_ under your spell.” Rand pulled himself out of the honey stupor Eliot's touch had dropped him into and slowly turned himself around so he had Eliot pinned, a hand on the railing on either side of Eliot’s slender waist. Eliot’s still-crossed ankles were surrounded by his own. He kept his hips at a respectable distance. Drinking in Eliot's hazel eyes, now black with no moonlight to shine them, he brought his mouth just an inch away from Eliot’s, but didn’t kiss him. He just held them there, breathing the same air, waiting for permission, fighting hard to keep his truth from popping out all his fantasies.

“We could practice together,” Eliot offered, with a voice low and throaty.

“Mm-hmm,” Rand hummed, feeling the dam break, and he lifted a hand which he carded through Eliot’s curls and slipped around his neck. Then he pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Eliot gave a tiny moan and sank into it, and his fingers came up and curled into Rand’s beard, tugging gently along his jaw, opening his mouth to let Eliot gently lick into it. Eliot’s other hand slipped around Rand’s waist and closed the distance between them. Heat passed through Rand’s mouth and down his spine, curling low in his abdomen. Eliot’s lips were softer than he’d even dreamed, it was like falling into clouds or sinking into a soft bed at the end of a long day. All his more wicked truths fell away and he wanted nothing more in this moment than to lay in his bed, all of his length pressed to Eliot’s lean body, and to kiss like this, soft and sweet.

“Mmm, beard,” Eliot hummed liquid gold onto his lips, and Rand’s lust slammed back into him, as easy as that.

“New?” Rand managed to croak between kisses. It was hard to speak and hard to keep from speaking, and he busied his mouth with soft touches and licks.

“Been years.”

“Too long.”

“Mm-hmm,” Eliot hummed again and Rand thought he was going to split into a thousand pieces. “Tickles.”

Rand broke away from the kisses to run his mouth along the scruff of Eliot’s jaw, landing finally on his throat, feeling his pulse and his voice buzz against his lips. Eliot’s hand, now free of Rand’s beard, found his hair instead, fisting it and tugging gently. It felt delicious, and Rand moaned into Eliot's neck.

“You promised to tell me all kinds of naughty things, Father,” Eliot teased, and his playfulness sent a thrill through Rand's heart.

“I said I’d tell you _true_ things. I’d rather you called me Rand.” He nipped and licked down to Eliot's collarbone and then ran his tongue up over his adam’s apple and up to his chin, which Eliot lifted in response. As he did so, he took his other hand off the railing and ran it up Eliot's back to the shoulder blades. _A sculpture, yes, that was true,_ he thought but kept his mouth busy enough to suppress the words.

“Mmm… Sorry, I’ve discovered a new kink. I’ll try to behave,” Eliot murmured offhandedly, as if he intended no such thing.

“If you do, my true things won’t be naughty.” Rand ran a finger firmly down Eliot's spine and pulled him into another kiss, this one deeper and dirtier than before.

Eliot moaned into his mouth, then pulled up for air. “For someone under a truth spell, you sure have a lot of mixed messages,” he chuckled darkly.

“Truths are slippery things,” Rand murmured as he pulled him back for more kisses, lost in Eliot's heat.

Eliot hummed in agreement to this, but then pulled back again, this time tugging on Rand’s hair to keep him from chasing the kiss. He looked into his eyes, steady and sweet and searching. “But Rand, really, are we out here because you don’t want to invite me in?”

“We’re out here because I was afraid the room was too forward, it might scare you off. And--”

“It was _my idea,_ Rand,” Eliot said with an exasperated huff and slapped him lightly on his back.

“Yes, and you called it _your_ room, for some reason.” There were so many truths to choose from Rand was able to pull what he needed for the moment at hand, though the struggle was mighty.

“I’ve stayed here, with Mama. She’s my port in the storm. Of course it’s yours tonight, darling,” he said kindly, smoothing Rand’s hair where he’d tangled his fingers into it, “and you have every right to decide who-- comes in.”

“Did you do that on purpose?” Rand asked, leaning in and finding no resistance now the kisses he placed on Eliot’s smirk.

“Mm-hmm.” Liquid gold.

“You said you were going to behave,” Rand said, smiling against his lips.

“You’d better tell me something true before I show you what a real brat I can be. _Father.”_

Rand flushed. _Will I ever hear that again and not react like this?_ he wondered, but pulled another truth from the pile. “My bed is covered in my travel bags, which I opened and made a mess of."

“Perhaps I should be more specific, given your condition,” Eliot said, breaking the kisses to lean in over Rand’s shoulder. “Would you like luggage on your bed, or me?” he purred into Rand’s ear.

It was all the excuse Rand’s truth needed to push past his defenses and bubble out of him. But he managed to at least deliver it with gravitas and heat. “You, absolutely,” he said, pulling back to look into Eliot’s eyes. “All laid out so I can unwrap you from those clothes very, very slowly.”

Eliot’s eyes widened, and then he scowled playfully and pouted.

“No, no. Don’t whine. You deserve to wait,” Rand said thickly. “You just drugged a priest, for Ember’s sake.”

“Oh sweet Jesus, this is you out of practice?” Eliot squealed, rolling his eyes and putting a hand to his heart. “You wound me, good sir. Do it again. Do it a _lot,”_ he added with a wicked twinkle as he spun them around, untangling them, and leaving them with Eliot halfway to Rand’s room. He took Rand’s hand gently, entwining their fingers. “But first-- you take care of the luggage and I’ll put up the silencing wards.”

“You’re a Magician?” The wonders of Eliot Waugh never ceased.

“Take me to bed and find out,” Eliot teased, and walked backwards with his eyes locked on Rand’s as he led him by the hand to the door, pushing it open with his magic and flicking the bedside candle alight with a quick tut. After all, it was his room first.

*

Arielle saw Mama waving at her from the bar and made her way over.

“Oh sweetheart, you look tired,” Quentin said from his barstool as he slid his arm around her.

“Gee, thanks a bunch,” Arielle grumbled, but let herself be pulled into the embrace.

“He’s been given a truth spell,” Mama warned. “He can’t help it if not all truths fit what a gentleman should say. Want a drink?”

“Ooh, _really?”_ Arielle squealed, and then answered Mama. “Cider if you have it, thanks. So,” she continued, turning to Quentin with a grin, “how long do I have your undiluted truth?”

“A little over twenty more minutes, I think. I love you,” he added, “so much.”

“Well thank Ember that’s still a true thing,” she said, grinning and put a kiss to his lips. “I love you too, my sweet boo.”

“I always hated that word back home but when you say it, it’s just so adorable,” Quentin said. “I wonder why that is. Maybe because everyone says it there, like they are trying to be Kim and Kanye or something, but only you say it here…”

“Oh, and he’s more rambling than usual,” Mama noted.

“Yes, I see,” Arielle laughed heartily. “Okay, twenty questions.”

Mama reached a hand out to her. “Ari, maybe this isn’t the best time to interrogate the man. Everyone has a right to privacy, and this doesn’t just make him not lie, he spouts off more than he means to.”

“Like every thought I have,” Quentin chimed in, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear and ducking his head. “Which is not something anyone wants, I’m sure.”

“Q, sweetheart, that’s not true,” Arielle cooed reassuringly, “you can tell me anything.”

“Whoa, whoa, all right I’m stopping this wagon right now. Ari, you sit at the end of the bar,” Mama said, “And nobody say nothin’.” She waved her dishrag to shoo Arielle off.

Arielle whined like a teenager as she stomped off to her barstool.

“Look, I’ll give you the end, okay? Just wait there for like fifteen minutes and you can have what’s left,” Mama said. “Quentin, tell me something true about my tavern.”

“I just found out the past owners are buried out back. I guess that’s why you don’t have a back patio, there’s not much room behind your tavern before the land falls away down to the riverbank…”

Quentin rambled on as Mama served more drinks, stopping him periodically from telling some truth or another to Gana, and then Wick, and prodding him with useless questions. Arielle drummed her fingers on the bar. The blossoms on the ceiling shivered. She thought about Biddy, and wondered again if she got those trees just to have an excuse for Arielle to stay with her. She would have done it anyway.

Arielle waved Mama down for another cider. She pulled it close when it arrived and sipped at it slowly, a bundle of anticipation. Time to think about something else besides Quentin.

Biddy had liked Quentin so much. At the end she talked a lot about how to watch over children, but she never suggested anything beyond that, and Arielle wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t about wanting her to be a schoolteacher. But it would always come up after Quentin stopped by to visit with her. Arielle wondered, _if she had found a Q, would she have changed her mind about marriage?_ She was so lost in thought she hardly noticed the blossoms begin to pulse against the ceiling.

“All right,” Mama finally called out to them as Arielle finished her drink, “let the truth commence. Just don’t be sneaky, Ari, and get out of him things you know he wouldn’t tell you otherwise. On your honor?”

“My honor, Mama,” Arielle said, right hand raised, and then skipped over to Quentin, who left his barstool to catch and kiss her.

“I want you to ask me where you should live,” he breathed into her mouth.

Arielle paused at that, and decided to save it. “Nope, I pick the questions. Sit with me.” They took their barstools again and held hands on the bar. “Now,” she said very seriously, “how is my braid?”

“It’s fallen a bit and it’s kind of lopsided but I think you always make it that way? So maybe that’s the style? I don’t know anything about hair. It always looks pretty to me, though. Prettiest when it’s all bunched up in the back from--"

“Okay, stop.” Arielle blushed. This was a dangerous weapon, she realized, and she needed to handle it carefully. “Peaches or plums?”

“You know that one. Plums.”

“I know, I’m stalling. I should have been thinking of questions! Um…” She looked around as if she would find some in the tavern. “What do you think of Eliot working here?”

“It’s good for him, he needs to be around people, but in more limited doses than he would admit, I think. But he would go crazy if he had to stay at home every night. And I like having the place to myself. I like having you over those nights. We can be loud and I don’t feel as guilty.”

“Okay, stop!” _Great Ember, are all of his answers going to swerve to sex?_ “Guilty about what?”

“About Eliot being alone out there on the bed. Like I win and he loses. Like we’ve kicked him out of the house like a dog.”

“Isn’t that his bed?” Arielle frowned.

“We never chose beds, but that one was usually mine. I always stay up later. It switched when you started staying over.”

“I didn’t know that,” she said, and started feeling guilty herself. Eliot had never mentioned it once.

“Our bed inside is the first bed he and I--” Quentin clamped a hand to his mouth, a panicked look on his face.

Arielle’s eyes widened. “Okay, I’m not going to let you finish that one." But she couldn't help but fill in the blanks. _And he gave it up to us, without a word of complaint,_ she thought. _Oh Eliot._

Quentin nodded, hands still firmly over his mouth, and his eyes grew fond in thanks.

She blew him a kiss, then tapped her chin with her finger. “Stay like that until I find another question. Um, oh--” she gave a small groan in frustration at her mind being blank. Or rather, suddenly full of all the wrong questions. “Aha! What happens to your outside stuff when it rains?”

“It never rains in our yard. I don’t know why. It will sometimes rain all around us, but not _on_ us. I don’t know if it’s a Mosaic enchantment? Or it might be why there _is_ a clearing, because there’s no rain there for the trees, so it’s sort of a chicken-and-egg question--”

“Okay, stop.”

“This is a game on a [podcast](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m1vnq8g13Sc) I used to listen to. Please stop me from trying to explain that to you,” he begged.

“Um--”

“Quick!” he squealed.

“What flavor is this cider?” She shoved her mug to his lips.

He gulped down half of it. “Apple.”

“Are you ever going to cut your hair?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t, but you shouldn’t let me choose,” she said, patting his knee absentmindedly and scanning the room for ideas. She was desperate for another question, and was resisting the urge to ask him if he loved her over and over just to hear him say it.

The blossoms on the ceiling were being very distracting. They had begun trembling some time ago, and now they were bouncing very slightly in a rhythm that wouldn’t stay steady for long, faster and then slower. _Where is Eliot?_ she wondered. _He should fix that._ _Wait--_

“Who made the truth spell, was it Eliot?” she said with narrowed eyes.

“Yes, but he didn’t make it for me? He made it for Father Rand, and then _he_ gave it to me, and I have no idea why he did but it’s starting to make me curious. I told Eliot he was okay, he is, isn’t he?” Quentin looked worried.

“As okay as our Eliot, who made it in the first place,” Arielle said, rolling her eyes. “He’s fine, he’s a good man, as I’m sure Eliot found out when he drugged him. Why were you vouching for him?” She had done the same but she wanted to gauge his reaction.

“I think Father Rand was picking him up. Flirting with him,” he clarified when that simple phrase didn’t translate, “and I think it was working. They aren’t here anymore.” He shrugged but his grip tightened slightly on her hand.

“And you’re good with that?” Arielle asked, but she knew the answer. _He’d give Eliot anything he wanted, he always does._

“I mean, no? But yes? A _tall, sexy man from out of town_ is really more Eliot’s speed, I think, so it’s good, you know?”

Mama rolled her eyes and started wiping down the bar. Arielle didn't notice this because her eyes were locked on Quentin's. She was only peripherally aware that the blossoms had started pulsing and fluttering in a rhythm that very fast indeed.

Quentin was staring into Arielle’s eyes with a pained look. “It is absolutely true that I don’t want to think about that too hard, I want to ignore the details? Which is fine because trust me, we will never talk about it. But on the surface? It feels fine, it feels logical, and that feels soothing? Somehow? Everybody’s happy, let’s not overthink it, I just want to think about you and how much I want you to move in with us,” he said, and pulled her into a forever kiss.

The blossoms all came crashing down from the ceiling at once.

“Must be midnight,” Mama said dryly.

 

 

tbc

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rand, only lose those awful sunglasses. http://beardstyle.net/wp-content/uploads/2015/12/hipster-beard-43-min.jpg
> 
> Whew, y'all. Good to get in Rand's head finally but this wore me out trying to get it right. There's still more to this "episode", so stay tuned next week for Part 3. More arrangements to be made... plus, Extreme Makeover, Mosaic Edition. :)


	22. Arrangements, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions are made.

After the flowers fell to the gasps of the crowd, Mama reassured everyone the blossoms were harmless and clean and they could just pick them out of their drinks and toss them to the floor. She had no way of knowing whether they were safe or not, or if they were even real. Eliot had mentioned his knowledge of illusion magic before, but she also knew from his work around her tavern that he was telekinetic, so it was fifty-fifty odds whether Eliot was conjuring them or routinely stripping bare some poor flower bushes off in the woods somewhere. But she also trusted him not to knowingly bring anything toxic into the bar and ran the odds about 90-10 they wouldn't hurt anyone.

Quentin was still talking to Arielle at the bar in front of her as she worked to replace the drinks whose owners ran the odds a little shorter than that.

“I have never read any books about Fillory,” he declared emphatically.

“Are there books about Fillory? I took history in school but we didn’t have a textbook, just old people that came to tell us stories,” Arielle said, sounding puzzled.

“There’s-- well, that isn’t a good test, maybe. I think you should keep living at Biddy’s.”

“Oh-- I thought-- oh.” Arielle looked crestfallen.

“Ari, sweetie, I’m just trying to test the spell!” Quentin exclaimed, laughing, and taking her face in his hands and giving her a quick kiss. “It’s worn off. And now that I-- I mean, now that we can just talk? We should talk about that,” he said, tucking his hair behind his ear. “It’s just you-- you said that you didn’t like that house, and you stay with us most nights anyway? So I was just wondering if you wanted to come move in with us. It’s stupid, probably, we could leave any day,” he added ruefully.

“Leave?” Arielle blinked slowly at him. “You never leave the Village.”

“No, we don’t-- I guess-- the puzzle, but…” Quentin trailed off.

“Q, it’s just that-- there isn’t any room, really. Eliot is already sleeping outside, because of me, apparently--”

“Not just you, us, both of us.”

“Yeah.” They shared a guilty silence for a moment.

“Oh man, I know I just brought this up, I’m shit with timing, but I’m sorry, all this beer, I need the outhouse,” Quentin said, and slid off his barstool to head to the back door via the kitchen.

“Q, Ari, my darling, darling ones!” Eliot came off the stairs and swept to the bar, radiant, relaxed. He came up behind Arielle and pulled her into a hug on her barstool by putting his arms around her waist. She reached up behind her to pet his hair. Mama noticed he didn’t look at Quentin, but just buried his face in Arielle’s neck as he squeezed her.

“I’ll be right back,” Quentin said.

“Q--” Eliot said quietly to the floor, but his concern tinged his voice.

“Nature calls, that’s all,” Quentin said. “It’s not-- we’ll talk about it later, okay? _Really_ need to pee.” He patted Eliot’s shoulder as he passed them and they shared a fleeting look. Quentin went into the kitchen, just missing Rand coming down the stairs. Rand made his way over to a table to join Gana and Gish.

“You’re all tangled,” Arielle complained as her fingers got stuck in a distinct knot in the back of Eliot’s hair.

“Tangled, mangled, _‘From me to you, Tangled up in blue’...”_ Eliot sang with a grin. He looked around at the mess on the floor. “What happened to the flowers? They were supposed to stay up until midnight.”

“Stayed up as long as you did, I think,” Mama muttered, and Eliot shot her a look.

“What… Oh!” he said, catching on, first looking back in shock at the blooms being trod on, and his mouth opened, and then closed with a snap. “Well, that’s-- well.” Then his wide grin returned. “Huh.”

“Eliot Waugh speechless,” Mama laughed. “Never thought I’d live to see the day. Hey, you done galavantin’ around? Seems everyone needs a new drink now that theirs got a garnish.”

“Of course, Mama,” Eliot said, blushing, and he made his way around to his place behind the bar, giving a quick glance to his erstwhile lover who was laughing at a joke Gish made.

Eliot started a cocktail, humming softly to himself.

“Eliot, El, listen-- do you like sleeping outside?” Arielle turned on her stool to look up at him.

“Sure, sweetheart,” he said reassuringly, as he measured liquor into the glass. “What’s not to love? Stars and moons and bears watching me sleep… I’m kidding, it’s fine. It’s not like it could rain on me. And there are, delightfully, no mosquitos in Fillory. Did-- did Q talk to you about--”

“Moving in? Yes. And also about how you’ve been sleeping outside because of us.”

“Not _because_ of you, darling. Well, I mean, yes, sort of, but one of us always sleeps outside. It makes sense that it’s me, that’s all. Don’t worry your pretty little head,” Eliot said, waving a hand dismissively.

“I want to. I mean, not _worry_ exactly but I want to think about this logically. Me moving in. Your home is...” Arielle helplessly waved her hand, not knowing how to say it politely.

“Actually a fairly gross hut. And very small. I know. But if you want to move in, I have-- ideas,” he said, searching for another ingredient for his project. “We could make it work. If you want it.” He gave her a serious look, gauging her intent.

“And you would be happy, if I did? I don’t want to crowd you out.”

“I would be _ecstatic._ Have my ride or die with us all the time? _Heaven._ I mean it.” He patted her arm and then put the lid on the shaker and put it to vigorous use.

Arielle beamed. “That would be fun, wouldn’t it? Okay, so here’s my problem. The trees. If I leave Biddy’s house and someone moves in, I’d have to go into their yard everyday to get the fruit. If they’d let me. And lug it back up the hill to the Mosaic to sort it.”

“Solved.”

“How?”

“Don’t underestimate me, Ari,” Eliot laughed, and began to croon at her. _“_ _‘Come on home, girl’ he said with a smile, ‘You don't have to love me yet, let's get high awhile, But try to understand, try to understand, Try, try, try to understand,[I'm a magic man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3vlAdMeZSfw&t=34s)... _ _”_ As he sang, he lifted his hand and all the blooms rose back to the ceiling, and with a few hand gestures that made his fingers look like seedlings pushing through soil, a sigil flew from his hands up to the ceiling and the blossoms formed a horizontal curtain and hung there as they had previously, some of them dripping beer. There was a gasp in the room from the villagers who were in the midst of this show. “I can easily move your trees to our yard,” he said, tossing his curls, and then poured the drink with a flourish.

Arielle clapped her hands giddily, and Eliot beamed. Mama chuckled to herself as she wondered if he did anything this time to secure them in case he ran off for seconds with Rand.

Quentin had returned, and was taking his stool again. “Move the trees? That’s-- El, you’re a genius! Yes! Let’s do that. I hadn’t even thought about the trees,” he said to Arielle, with a rueful look. “I’m sorry.” He turned to the bar, spotted the drink, and slid it to himself. “Always the perfect host,” he said as he lifted his glass to Eliot. “You know,” he said to Arielle, “back home, he always had a drink waiting for us, even when we got back from Brakebills South, remember, El?”

“That was-- I was going to say different, but oddly it’s exactly the same,” Eliot said with a frown. Then his eyes grew fond and he set about making another drink, shaking his head with a smile.

“I’m sorry I didn’t think about the trees, that’s like, your whole career right now,” Quentin sipped his drink and winced. “El, does this have _flowers_ in it? It tastes like… rosemary, or something? I don’t think it’s for me, really. Maybe just another cider?”

Eliot gave a huff and rolled his eyes as Quentin continued.

“Anyway, Ari, I’m sorry I didn’t take that into account,” he said, putting a hand on her knee.

“For Ember’s sake, Q, don’t take everything on yourself!” she answered, slapping lightly at his shoulder, which gave a wooden thump. “The trees are my lookout. And anyway, I have _two_ Magic Men, I should have known, nothing is an obstacle for you.”

Eliot and Quentin both laughed in unison.

“You have no idea, Ari,” Eliot said, passing the cider to Quentin. _“Everything’s_ an obstacle. The puzzle, just for starters. And gods, and Beasts, and magic. But we manage, don’t we, Q?” He gave a quick fond look at his friend, and for a quick moment, Mama thought the world contained only them. _Team Queliot._

“We can do hard things,” Quentin agreed with a smile, and Eliot reached over and ruffled his hair. “Oof, get off, dick,” he laughed as he flailed at him, and then swept his hands through his hair, undoing and replacing the tie on his bun with deft fingers.

“I-- nevermind. Yes, Ari, we can do hard things,” Eliot said to her reassuringly. “But moving your trees won’t be one of them. Tricky, might take a morning, could use some spotters to make sure I don’t hit anything with them on the way, but it won’t be hard. You might lose a day’s fruit. The hut, on the other hand...”

“We need more room,” Quentin nodded in agreement.

“Ari, I don’t suppose nature is calling you, too?” Eliot asked with a meaningful look.

“Um, yes, I-- okay. Yes. You’re-- is everything okay?” Arielle looked at each of them in turn. 

“Peaches and plums,” Eliot said. “But machinations are afoot and the menfolk need to talk.”

Arielle stuck out her tongue at this, but made her way to the kitchen.

When she was gone, Eliot turned to Quentin, but before he could speak, the younger man cut him off.

“El, I don’t really want to--” he began in a low voice, as he fidgeted on his stool.

“I know. Neither do I. We’ll-- get there eventually. Right now I want to talk about the house. I want to do an _Extreme Makeover: Mosaic Edition,”_ he said with a giddy grin and splayed hands. “As a surprise for Ari. That’s why I shooed her off." His eyes lit up more and more as he spoke. "We could add another room, maybe two, just off the back. And add some color. I don’t know why I’ve let this go on so long, that ugly old hut. Should have redone it all years ago. Should have done it for you, for us.”

“You filled the flower boxes! And the gardens around the puzzle. And... well, we’ve always thought we were leaving any day, and...” Quentin struggled to explain.

“No reason not to be comfortable. [Operation Decorator Storm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEN2tvg6hO4)!” Eliot laughed, and resumed work on the cocktail. “We can shut off the bed area and make it a real room with a door, give you lovebirds some privacy.”

“And give you a room. El, you shouldn’t have to sleep outside, I’m sorry, I’ve been feeling terrible about that. And now-- you might-- have company sometimes.”

“Thought the spell would have worn off by now,” Eliot said without looking up. 

Mama had found things to busy herself with to stick around and eavesdrop on the surprise, but now it seemed she might learn something _actually_ interesting.

“It has, but I can tell the truth without it,” Quentin huffed.

Eliot waved a hand. “Well, anyway, you always slept outside before, there’s nothing wrong with it. But yes, as long as we are remaking everything, a room would be nice. So we push back the back wall, make the common area bigger, make you a wall, and add a room on the back for me. But if we don’t want to do it the old-fashioned way, which I definitely do _not,_ it will take both of us for the magic.” He gave the drink a vigorous shake. “Shush about it now, here she comes. I do want it to be a surprise, Q, so be cool.”

 _Well, maybe next time,_ Mama thought.

“My middle name,” Quentin said dryly.

“I thought your middle name was Makepeace,” Arielle said as she lifted onto her stool.

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Eliot groaned. “So dumb. So _cute_ and dumb,” he clarified to Quentin’s glare.

“What are you being cool about, Magic Man?” Arielle asked Eliot with a smirk.

“Nothing. Plans,” Eliot answered airily as he gracefully poured the drink.

“So, if we move your trees, you’ll come live with us?” Quentin asked hopefully.

“Yes! Yes, of course! Team Queliot, all in one place, it sounds grand.” Arielle grinned, and reached out to squeeze both their arms at once. “I love the idea of waking up to you every morning,” she cooed at Quentin, who blushed. She kissed him sweetly and they shared a lover’s gaze.

Eliot smiled warmly at them. “It’s settled, then,” he declared. “We will need a week. And for that week, you’ll need to keep staying at Biddy’s. Unless that’s hard on you, sweetheart?” he added.

“No, not hard. I mean yes, but I need to go through her things and clean out the house anyway,” Arielle said.

“And Quentin will help. I’ll need him at the Mosaic some during the day, but he can sleep over at your house at night. Just for the week. Starting tomorrow, of course. And I’m declaring a break from that damn puzzle. I’ll see what day people are available to help with the trees.”

Eliot took the finished cocktail to Rand’s table, set it down without looking at him but brushing his fingers lightly on his shoulder, and moved briskly away to begin chatting with the other villagers.

Mama watched Rand sip the drink as he stared after Eliot, then his eyes widened with delight. “My goodness, that’s-- my goodness,” he said reverently. _A signature drink,_ Mama mused, _made just for you. I wonder if you know what that means._

Eliot was beaming, lighting up the room. Rand was laughing more than she’d ever seen him do, though he was normally a genial sort. They steadily avoided each other.

After another hour, Quentin and Arielle began making their rounds to say goodbye to the townsfolk and thank them for coming out for Biddy.

When they reached the table where Eliot sat with Wicklet and Barry and Hund-- Nalie having left because she had school early in the morning-- Eliot rose and kissed Arielle on the cheek and then swept Quentin into a very obvious hug, putting on a bit of a show and whispering in his ear. Rand was watching them cautiously, but he didn’t look pained, Mama noted, just mildly amused and thoughtful.

“Alright, alright,” Quentin laughed as he untangled himself from Eliot. “Me too, you big goof. Are you-- will you be home tonight? I mean-- I’m sorry that’s--”

“I need to stay and help Mama clean up,” Eliot replied offhandedly. “Don’t you kids wait up.”

Any awkwardness that might have arisen was covered by Gana and Gish coming over to them. They hugged Quentin and Arielle goodbye, Gana saying to her kindly, “Please let us know if you need anything. I can make a casserole tomorrow and bring it over.”

“That would be lovely, thank you, Gana,” Arielle said, kissing her on the cheek. “Quentin will be staying over and that way he won’t starve.”

“Or have breakfast for dinner again,” Quentin chuckled, and Arielle elbowed him in the ribs. “Ow! Watch it, Slugger.”

“I’ll be at Biddy’s most of the day, just come by anytime after lunch,” Arielle said to Gana, ignoring Quentin.

“Walk you out?” Gish said, and after they had all sent waves of goodbye to the room, the group left.

Arielle ran back in a second later, and found Rand, who had risen from his now empty table. She kissed him on the cheek and said, “Thank you. Thank for the service, and thank you for Eliot.” She playfully wagged a finger in his face. “Be nice to him, yeah?” But then they both broke into warm smiles and hugged before she scooted out the door.

 

It was another hour before the rest of the villagers cleared out, leaving Mama and Eliot to clean up-- and Rand, now sitting at the bar, nursing another cocktail Eliot had dropped off in front of him without a word.

 _“_ _Cold, late night so long ago, When I was not so strong you know, A pretty man came to me, I_ _never seen eyes so blue, You know, I could not run away it seemed…”_ Eliot sang to himself as he floated the blossoms out the front door and let them loose into the breeze. “Bye Biddy, thanks for the wagon,” he whispered softly, “and Ari.” He sighed, and then turned and came back in the door.

“Can I help with anything, Mama?” Rand was saying as she brought mugs to the bar.

“Trying to get out of paying for your room?” Mama snorted.

“Oh, no, I’m letting Eliot sing for my supper,” he said dryly, but didn’t look back at the younger man, who was rolling his eyes.

“You know the turndown service cost extra,” Eliot called out from where he was waving the shutters closed.

“Ah, so you’re running a real racket here now, Mama,” Rand laughed. “I had no idea you’d turned bawd.”

“Not me, I don’t have anything to do with… what you two get up to,” Mama grinned. “Just helped with arrangements. Although I’ll take a tip if the service was good,” she added as she raised her eyebrows in Eliot’s direction.

“Perfection, Mama. Just perfection,” Rand sighed, and then he blushed and covered his face with his glass as he finished off his drink.

“Mmm,” Eliot hummed as he lifted the chairs and tables a foot off the floor with a tut. _“I’m a magic man…”_ he sang softly.

“I’m going to go work on the dishes,” Mama announced, as if that meant she still couldn't hear every word, now that the tavern was empty. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she added with a smirk.

“Trying to imagine what that would be!” Eliot called out after her.

But she was already in the kitchen and didn't respond. _Let them have a minute to figure this next bit out,_ she thought. It wasn't her fault that from the sink she had a sideways view of the bar through the pass-through counter, she didn't design the tavern.

Eliot set a broom to sweeping, _Fantasia-_ style, and came around the bar. “Need anything else?” he asked Rand casually.

“Just wondering what the nightly rate is if a staff member is staying in the room. Especially if he claims it’s his,” Rand said, equally casually, looking straight ahead. “Seems like it’s not much of a room for rent at an inn, at that point. More like staff quarters.”

“Why _Father,”_ Eliot teased, and Rand blushed again with a wide grin. “Is that an invitation?”

Rand shrugged. “Unless you need to be with your friends.”

“My friends would be glad to have the night off, I suspect. And anyway, you’re my friend now too.” He smiled warmly and chuckled, shaking his head. “F. W. B. comes to Fillory.”

“What?”

“Okay, one thing you need to know about me is that I am from somewhere _very_ far away and many of my references will not make sense to you. Quentin can translate, if needed.”

“And when we’re alone? When I’m here, which I should stress is not very often,” he added, “And I’m sorry about that.”

“No worries. I have a girlfriend,” he said airily, waving a hand. “And a boyfriend, I suppose,” he shrugged, “for all intents and purposes.” He leaned down with his elbows on the bar, his face close to Rand’s. “But you and I, you see, we will be FWB, friends with benefits,” he finished sagely.

“The benefits are--”

“Sex, Rand, the benefits are sex,” Eliot smirked.

“Well that’s good. I was afraid it was maid service,” Rand deadpanned.

“Could be that, too,” Eliot said with a wink. “I’m out of practice with role play, but I’m sure it will come back to me.”

“Brat.”

_“Father.”_

Mama grinned to herself. If everyone just left things _uncomplicated,_ these two were just what the other needed, in her opinion. Rand was sweet but let life grind him down a bit, as he took on other people's problems. He certainly deserved to have a treat waiting for him when he came around. And Eliot had been surprisingly patient with his celibacy, given the stories he told about his more wild days. Given that everyone had seemed to have moved on to a new equilibrium with Arielle-- though Mama knew Eliot still had feelings for Quentin, buried somewhere deep under the armor-- she thought it would be a crying shame if Eliot wasted the one young adulthood he would ever get living like a hermit when there was a perfectly nice, handsome young man ready to do something about that every now and again. After all, she had done the same once upon a time, with a lady in Town who ended up marrying her landlord.  _Everyone deserves a treat,_ she thought fondly.

But she wasn't going to let these two have theirs on her bar. “Oh for Ember’s sake, take it upstairs, you two,” she said exasperatedly as she came out of the kitchen. “But put my furniture down first.”

Eliot stood up and gave a wave of his hand to make the broom stop its work, leaning it against the wall. More gestures and the chairs and tables settled into place, the flower sprays on them staying perfectly steady. “Speaking of furniture, Mama, we’re going to need another bed at the Mosaic.”

Mama stopped and raised her eyebrows.

“No, not for this,” Eliot said with a wave in Rand’s direction. “We’re expanding the house for Ari to move in, and adding a second room, for me. But I like having a bed outside, for when Q...” He looked at Mama meaningfully.

 _For when Q can’t get out of bed and you want him close,_ she thought, and nodded and patted his arm. “I’ll talk to Barry, he has an in with the woodworker in Town.”

“Good. We’ll need some other things too. I’ll make a list. Not sure what we’ll pay with, but we’ll figure out something.”

“Oh I don’t know,” Mama grinned, and patted Eliot’s cheek. “I always said you’d bring in a pretty penny, pretty boy. Rand here might have the right idea.”

“Mama!” Eliot said with a shocked look, and drew himself up, tossing back his curls defiantly. “I will have you know I only fuck transactionally with _royalty._ I have a very strict policy about that. _”_

“Well, then I’m _definitely_ not paying for the room,” Rand said with a straight face. “Wouldn’t want to break policy.”

“Aw, take it,” Mama said. “Never made any profit off that room anyway. It’s mostly Mama’s Room for Wayward Boys. And both of you qualify. Now, off to bed with you, or I’ll see you on the deck for a smoke if you’re still up. But I’m shutting down the tavern for the night.”

Eliot gave a tut and the lanterns went out, leaving only the candle on the bar and the glow coming from the kitchen. “I’m going to take just a minute to tidy up the storeroom-- I owe you, Mama,” he added to her frown, “--and I can do it quick. _I’m a magic man,”_ he sang again, as if to remind her. “I’ll make sure it’s closed up and get the lanterns back there. Then I will see _you_ upstairs. Father.” He stroked the side of Rand’s beard with a coy look, making Rand squirm delightfully, and moved off into the kitchen.

“Thanks, El honey,” Mama said, and came around the bar to hug Rand. “It was a beautiful service, Father. Sent her off right nice.”

“We’ll all miss her, but I’m sure you most of all, second only to Arielle,” Rand replied, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Guess it’s up to you to keep the idjits in line now.”

“Only if they come within arm’s reach of my bar,” Mama said dryly. “I got enough on my plate with this one, here,” she added, thumbing back at the kitchen, “I’m not going lookin’ for more trouble.”

“This is okay, isn’t it, Mama?” Rand asked in a low tone so as not to be overheard. “I’m not making a mistake getting mixed up in something _complicated,_ am I?”

Mama considered this seriously. “You know, I don’t think so. Adding Arielle helped, I don’t see why having you on the side should make anything any weirder than it already is. Those dumb boys, they… They have _a love that passeth understanding,_ as Umber says. They love deeply, fiercely, but then, they sort of love everyone like that?” She shrugged. “But each other most of all. They are a remarkable pair of men, a remarkable team. I’d never bet on the man that would try to come between them, but I’d also never take a bet that they wouldn’t forgive each other anything, in the end. But you have your own reasons to keep your distance, Rand, you’re married already, to your work, we’ve talked about that. So it seems a fine match. I don’t think anything with a light touch would cause anyone problems.”

“Understood,” Rand said quietly. “I guess a man can’t help but get a bit carried away and hope, but… you’re right, I’m not ready to settle down anyway. I love my job as it is. I just would never want to cause anyone sorrow.”

“I know, honey, and you can rest your mind on it. Eliot will be the first one to put up a shield if it ever gets the least bit difficult, trust that. You’ll never get over the battlements to hurt anyone.”

“Shields and battlements… you make him sound so-- dangerous.”

“He’s no pussycat, make no mistake, but it’s all in defense. Like the truth spell he pulled on you, to make sure we were all safe from you. He won’t let anyone get hurt, even at his own expense. He’s a protector at heart, that’s all I mean. He’ll protect you, too, if you let him. Just be honest with him and trust his boundaries and you’ll be fine.”

“Thank you, Mama, _again._ You're my rock, and you always know the right thing to do.”

“Well, most of the time. Oh-- speaking of that,” Mama exclaimed, “I forgot I was writing you a letter about that poor fella and his girl--”

“The ones in Bigger Town?” Rand asked, to which Mama nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, _thank you,_ I’m so lost with them!”

“Oh they’re _complicated_ ones, alright, but I think I figured them out. Just be sure to get that letter from me tomorrow before you leave. I finished it but you got here before the post. Now, I’m going upstairs and I’m taking this candle with me, you wanna come with and share the light? Eliot will be fine, he does a thing with his fingers and lights his own way. _Magicians,_ pfft,” Mama said, picking up the candle and heading for the stairs.

  
_"_ Those are two true things you just said about him, Mama," Rand chuckled as he followed.

 

 

 

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song credits:  
> Tangled Up in Blue, by Bob Dylan https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwSZvHqf9qM  
> Magic Man, by Heart https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3vlAdMeZSfw&t=34s 
> 
> "Arrangements" is going to be a four-part "episode", so stay tuned for Part 4 next week!
> 
> Thanks to everyone for commenting and helping me with this! You're the best! 
> 
> Is Heart stuck in your head now, too? Because really it took me days to get over it after I wrote it, and now that I'm posting it's back. You're welcome! :)
> 
> Notes for if you're a details person: I had it in my head that they couldn't take the beds from Biddy's house because that's technically the school teacher's house and they have to leave the main furniture like beds, tables, dressers, etc. But then I never found a place to slide that little detail in. So if you're wondering why they need to acquire new furniture rather than just raiding Biddy's place, that's why. Also, I attributed a bible quote to Umber, but he seems very well-read to me and I could picture him quoting Earth's Judeo-Christian Bible and not bothering to explain he was quoting, or at least that's my headcanon. (Wait, is it just canon if it's my story? Hmm...)


	23. Arrangements, Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrangements are finalized.

The next morning Rand knocked cautiously on Mama’s apartment door. “Mama? I’m gonna go--” he began, when the door opened to Mama in her housedress with a kerchief tied around her hair. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to wake you. I just wanted to get that letter before I headed out.” His travel bag was by his feet.

“You didn’t, honey, I’m just late getting going today. Come on in, I’ll find the letter for you. So,” she added coyly as he stepped into her tiny sitting room, “did you have a pleasant stay?”

“I did, thank you,” Rand blushed. “Eliot’s gone off home, he woke up full of ideas--”

“Rand! You don’t have to tell me,” Mama grinned as she poked around her apartment for the letter.

“No,” he said, blushing harder, “I mean about the house. Their renovations to the Mosaic. And yes, Bawd,” he added with a grin, pushing back against her teasing, “other ideas too. But when those had been _fleshed out,_ he left to start work on the house.” Rand felt rather proud of himself. He always enjoyed watching her joke around like this with others, but there had never been an occasion for him to participate, until now, and he thought he was doing pretty well.

Mama gave a cackle of approval. “He’s a bundle of energy, that one, when his boredom’s relieved.”

“Makes one wonder what he was like before the quest,” Rand said cautiously.

“You couldn’t get it out of him, then,” Mama nodded. “Well, take heart, none of us can. I don’t think that joke about royalty last night was entirely hyperbolic, I’ll say that. They play all that very close to the vest, both of them. Don’t expect more than cryptic clues.”

“I’ve never met anyone like him,” Rand said. “Is it because he’s a child of Earth?” he added in a whisper.

“There is no one in this or any world like Eliot Waugh, honey. Oh, here it is,” she said, producing a letter from a dresser drawer.  

“Thank you. I look forward to reading it. I’ll send back word by post how it works out.” Rand slipped the letter into his bag. “Might send one to Eliot too, can I send it here?”

“Of course. He’s not much of a reader but I’m sure he’d be happy to read what _you_ have to say,” she said with a wink.

“Well, I’ll keep it short, then. Thanks for the tip. So, I’ll be back in a few months, unless something comes up here. Always good to see you, Mama,” he said as they embraced.

“Safe travels, hon. Now, I’d better get myself dressed and go up to the Mosaic and see what they’re up to there, get that furniture list.”

*

When Eliot arrived at Mama’s two days later for his weekly shift, there was a letter waiting for him on the bar. It was addressed in simple, tidy handwriting.

 

_Eliot Waugh_

_Mama’s Room for Wayward Boys_

_The Tavern_

_The Village_

 

Eliot grinned and put the letter in his pocket. “Mama,” he said, moving around to the kitchen, “do you know anyone with an in to get fabric?”

*

The kids of the Village would talk about the day they moved the trees to their own children. Everyone came out for it.

Arielle welcomed Hund and Gish, the handiest with shovels as they had recently proven, into the yard that morning and with Quentin’s help, moved the soil carefully away from the roots. Wicklet got his pups, now almost fully grown, to help dig with their paws when the trees became unsteady enough that the men had to hold them upright. Quentin mended torn-up roots.

“I haven’t missed Josh or any of the Nature Kids more than today,” Eliot remarked to Arielle as he arrived.

“Except every time you go to Cleve’s,” she noted, having heard that rant till she knew it by heart.

“Shh, he’s right over there. And don’t insult the only dealer around! I’d be trapped on this plane of existence if it weren’t for his feeble attempts.” 

Cleve was, as usual, “supervising”, which meant telling the other men how he would do it and not lifting a finger to help. 

“And you,” Eliot continued with a smile as he nudged her, “would stop coming over if I couldn’t get you high.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I could always ride or die with Cleve. _He_ has a covered wagon. You don’t even have a horse,” she said primly.

“Neither does he, which is why he’s parked down by the river with the wheels half stuck in mud.”

“Hmm, true,” she mused. “Plus there’s Q, of course.”

“Of course. And I appreciate your commitment to the pretense that you’re not enthralled by my charms and pining for me,” Eliot said with a toss of his curls.

Arielle snorted a laugh. “Still not a size queen,” she said, referencing a conversation from yet another afternoon at the Rock. This brought a hearty cackle from Eliot. “Speaking of which, have you heard from Father Rand?” she asked.

“Ari!” he exclaimed, feigning shock. “It’s only been six days.” He paused, then giggled and took both of her hands in his. “So yes, I’ve gotten two letters and answered them both. He has… quite the imagination for a man in his profession. It’s like very slow, asynchronous sexting,” he added, which made no sense to Arielle, but she giggled with him anyway.

“I thought the post only came twice a month.”

“Unless you bribe the postman with a magic trade, so his bag holds unlimited amounts. It was Q’s suggestion, some nerd thing, he called it a _bag of holding._ Although we might be wearing the postman’s patience already.”

“Eliot! They’re ready for ya!” Cleve called out.

“All right, Assembled Villagers and Various Extras, listen up,” Eliot announced loudly, clapping his hands and stepping forward to address the group. Some of the farmers from farther out grumbled a bit at this, but everyone was so excited to see the trees move, all was generally forgiven. “Once we get moving, you’re all going to have to help me guide these trees so we don’t hit anything on the way, like the house. We don’t want Quentin to have to come back and mend everything on our route. So we’re going to use the color system. Green is go, yellow is slow down, and red is stop. If you forget that, and you really need me to stop, the safeword is pomegranate. If I hear that or ‘red’ I’ll stop right away. Everybody got that?”

The crowd murmured agreement. Behind the tree trunk he was holding, Quentin dropped his head and shook it slowly with a chuckle. Arielle tried to catch his eye to smirk at him but failed. Eliot maintained his pose as if he hadn’t said anything unusual.

“We’re not going to be able to keep the fruit from falling, so it’s up to Giselle and Gabriella and the Kid Squad to pick them all up as they fall,” Eliot continued. Gish’s twins nodded in agreement, the small children of the village school gathered close around them. 

“Whoever picks up the most gets a prize!” Arielle added. “So bring them all back to the tavern when we’re done and we’ll count them. Did everyone get their baskets? Let’s see ‘em!”

The children raised their baskets, squealing in delight.

“Could you move this along? Or hold up the trees for us?” Quentin said exasperatedly. 

Eliot, clearly enjoying all eyes on him, moved his feet into a battle stance and raised his hands to begin the tuts, muttering under his breath. The crowd gasped as sigils moved from his hands to the trees and they began to lift into the air as the men let go of their trunks, hands still out, just in case.

“Yellow!” Hund called out. “You’re getting up into the branches of the taller trees!”

Eliot lowered the fruit trees slightly. “Am I clear?”

“Green!” Hund replied. 

Arielle failed again to catch Quentin’s eyes, which he kept locked on the tree trunk in front of him, his face red, lips pressed, caught between a smile and a frown.

As the trees slowly moved forward, the crowd formed something of a parade, with the trees as giant floats. Eliot was their grand marshal in the lead, striding backwards and keeping his hands raised, fingers tautly splayed, face frowning in concentration. Most of the adults surrounded the trees, ready to call out to Eliot if there were problems, while others just trailed along to watch the spectacle. The kids brought up the rear, laughing and squealing, catching the peaches and plums that fell and rolled away as the trees swayed slightly in their flight. The group moved in a column from the yard behind Biddy’s house (which would be called that for a generation, no matter how many school teachers took residence there), and crept slowly around the house and to the road.

Biddy’s house sat at the juncture of the five roads that lead out of the village. The juncture made a wide town square, which was lined with the tavern, Hund’s shop, the schoolhouse, and Biddy’s, along with some empty storefronts. Once they were in the square, they were free of impediments and moved more quickly until they made the turn to the northwest to go up the River Road. Eliot seemed to be managing the move uphill just fine. Arielle was suddenly glad they didn’t live at New House, since it would be hard for Eliot to move backwards down the other side of the hill to where the road met the river. 

Mama came out of the tavern to call out to everyone. “Don’t forget to come back here for punch when you’re done! And kids, come right back here when you can’t hold anymore, so Ari and I can get to juicing.”

Arielle ran to Quentin and gave him a quick kiss, then split off for the tavern.

“Sorry you can’t go with them today,” Mama said when Arielle caught up to her. “Eliot says they’ll be done tomorrow for the big reveal. Got the house ready?”

“Yep. Thanks for storing the boxes, Quentin and I will be over with them tomorrow morning. I’m not sure what to do with it all. There’s not much, but it’s her personal things, so I can’t bear to throw them out. And I have no idea if there’s room for them at the Mosaic. I know some of the furniture went there, but--”

Cries of “Red!” and “Pomegranate!” came from the parade, which stopped abruptly, catching the womens’ attention. The column made a collective shift to the southwest, and then following calls of “Green!” it proceeded again up the road.

“I’m happy to keep them,” Mama said, putting an arm around Arielle’s waist. “Someday you’ll be passing them to your own kids,” she added with a squeeze.

“Oh, ho,” Arielle scoffed as they turned to go inside, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

 

*

The next day, Arielle and Quentin, with Mama in tow, returned to Biddy’s house for the last time after dropping off boxes at the tavern. Eliot was waiting for them in front of the house, along with much of the village, watching them come across the square. _Everyone’s going to have to work extra hard to make up for all this time off,_ Arielle worried to herself, but the thought evaporated when she saw Eliot’s excited grin. He was dressed up in his best blue duster, a scarf tied around his neck in a large bow, and he carried a silver cane that Arielle had seen in Hund’s shop window.

“Princess Arielle,” he announced as he strode forward and bowed low to her, “your palace awaits.”

Quentin rolled his eyes at the dramatic flourish but Arielle giggled and curtsied, lifting out her skirt. Each of the men took one of her hands, and she couldn’t help but kiss each of the knuckles in turn. Eliot raised her Lover’s Dream box, packed with her personal possessions, with the hand that held the cane which dangled from his fingers, and he wafted it ahead of them as they made their way to the Mosaic. The rest of the crowd followed behind, a second parade in as many days.

 _“[Come with me,](https://youtu.be/-oMXqViemvg) And you'll be, In a world of pure imagination…” _ Eliot sang as they walked, occasionally twirling his cane, careful to keep the box afloat. _“Take a look and you'll see, Into your imagination…”_

“Just promise you won’t turn Ari into a blueberry,” Quentin joked. “Or drop her into the chocolate river.”

Arielle’s eyes widened in hope as she looked up at Eliot, but he was shaking his head. “He’s kidding. If I could make a chocolate river, trust me, I’d be taking daily baths in it. And then how would I keep my figure? Tsk, best not to dream too big, sweetheart,” he said, squeezing her hand. “A river of bourbon, now, that’s a thought.” Ari laughed as he went back to singing. _“We'll begin, With a spin, Traveling in the world of my creation…”_

“Not just his,” Quentin scoffed to Arielle, “I helped.”

“I know, boo,” she said sweetly and kissed him on the cheek. “Let him have this,” she added in a whisper in his ear. “You get _me.”_

He squeezed her hand in return and grinned. “I do indeed.” As they continued their walk, their hands began to swing in time to Eliot’s song.

 _“Living there, you’ll be free, if you truly wish to be,”_ Eliot finished as they arrived at the Mosaic, lowering her box to the ground. He bowed low, letting go of Arielle’s hand so Quentin could lead her into the yard.

“Um, we, that is, I hope-- Oh, Ari!” Quentin gasped as she burst into tears, her free hand over her mouth.

 

The Mosaic yard had exploded in color. 

There was a bright red awning over the now-blue door, and the flower boxes were painted a bright yellow. The shutters were painted too, a duskier red than the awning, and matched new wooden plaques above each window. The boxes, shutters, and plaques were painted with delicate little flowers and vines. More flowers filled the rock-lined beds under the windows.

There was a second clothesline on the west side of the house, and in front of it sat the bench from Biddy’s porch, its old cushion now a bright teal with fringe, the back filled out with yellow pillows from her sitting room. Next to it was her favorite chair and footstool from her back sunroom, its cushion refilled so it was plump as new, and the yellow quilt she would put over her legs lay over its back, ready to lay across a lap on a cool night. Between the chair and bench sat a little table, and behind a lantern, making a little sitting area.

The flower bed in front of it held newly revitalized sprays of blue flowers, with large pink blooms added in. Eliot’s food gardens filled the other three beds around the puzzle, and had never looked more inviting, lush with various vegetables ready to be picked.

The puzzle itself was blank, unattended for the week, with a wagon filled with tiles nearby, and more stacked neatly around the brick edging. The small worktable had been placed on the north side, and barrels had been added for more seating.

More pillows from Biddy’s adorned the outdoor bed, now covered in a majestic quilt of reds, pinks, and golds that Arielle didn’t recognize at all. It looked so inviting. _Did Eliot decide to sleep out here after all?_ she wondered briefly, but her eye kept moving to the dining table, now complete with more matching chairs. A new little birdhouse topped the clothesline pole on the east side. Their clothes were drying on the line, as usual, but the colors only added to how beautiful and bright the whole yard appeared.

Quentin looked over to Eliot, who followed slowly behind them. Eliot was beaming with pride, and Quentin seemed to take this as confirmation to proceed, so he gently led her closer to the house, her other hand still clamped firmly over her mouth. “There’s more, inside,” he said, and after she pulled him over so she could run her hand over the quilt on the outdoor bed and take in the east side of the house, he led her to the door.

Behind the blue door was a beaded curtain, which he held aside for her to walk through. Instead of the single room, hearth in the center, bed tucked into the alcove on the east side, there were walls. 

The front area just inside the door, in front of the new hearth, still contained the small table and chairs. But the hearth was now backed by a wooden wall, stone behind the hearth, with the prep area moved to beside the hearth along it, and the alcove was also blocked off by a wall with a door. A hallway extended back on the east side of what had been a small hut, and as she moved into it she noticed two doors to her left and one at the end of the hall, and large double doors to the right with glass panes, through which she could see the outdoor firepit. Quentin moved to the first door and opened it with a grin.

It was a bedroom, walls painted a cheery yellow, with a window on the west wall covered in a lace curtain. Centered under the window was their bed, covered in the quilt from Arielle’s room at Biddy’s. Two nightstands flanked the bed, a candle on her side and a small stack of books on Quentin’s. Two dressers stood sentinel on either side of the door. Propped on one was a small frame with a tiny sketch of Biddy and Arielle, smiling and happy. It looked like the day of the swimming hole’s arrival.

Arielle threw her arms around Quentin’s neck and squeezed him tight. “Our room,” was all she could gasp out, and his strong arms around her waist squeezed her in agreement. 

He was crying a little now, too. “New bed,” he said softly, making her give a tiny squeal and another squeeze. 

She let him go to continue her exploration, moving him some so she could move the door and get a better look at the other dresser. As she did, she noticed hooks on the back of the door that held two robes, one being hers that she couldn’t find when she packed. As she touched it in wonder at the effort her men had gone to, she noticed a sigil painted on the door and gave Quentin a questioning look. “Silencing wards,” he said with a grin, “permanent. They cover the room.” She blushed and looked around and realized what she had taken to be decorative trim on the paint was actually a line of tiny sigils that surrounded the room. 

Quentin took her hand and began to lead her out of the room. “There’s more, there’s more,” he said and brought her into the hallway, where Eliot was waiting, both hands resting on the top of his cane.

“That’s my room next to you,” he said with a slight wave of the cane. “You can see it later,” he shrugged, “but first…” Eliot backed up into the front room and motioned to the door that led into a small room that had once been the alcove. He swung it open.

Inside was a bathtub, filling most of the room, though the room was bigger now than she remembered, longer on its north-south side. By now she recognized the gold sigil trim on the dusty rose paint and realized this tiny room was made private by silencing wards as well. Flanking the bathtub were two little tables, one covered in candles, and one holding a basket with soaps and glass bottles. Over the bathtub were shelves full of fluffy towels. Over the window on the south side was another lace curtain. On the north wall sat a small table with a wash basin and a pitcher full of water. Above hung a mirror in a wooden frame. 

“You brought it inside!” The bathtub had been out behind the hut, previously.

“Still no indoor plumbing,” Eliot sighed. “But we can fill the tub and the pitcher with magic now, Q figured out the spell, so that’s about as good. The outhouse is still outside.”

“I want to see your room, El!” Arielle exclaimed. 

“Well, I suppose you will eventually anyway,” Eliot said, and Arielle wondered why he was so reluctant.

She understood when she went inside. The room was majestic, the walls a deep burgundy with painted delicate cream-colored flowers trailing over them, mixed with tiny sigils. Cream velvet curtains covered the windows on the west and north sides, tied back with gold cord. Another bed, this time with a deep purple quilt with gold trim, was centered under the west window as theirs was. But this one was framed from above with a velvet canopy the same color as the quilt, attached to the ceiling. Two more nightstands sat at each side of the bed, with candles on both and a pair of glasses, a quill, and some parchment resting on one. A tall, graceful armoire dominated one wall to the side of the door.

“It’s… a bit grander than yours,” Eliot said, hesitating. “I didn’t mean to, but… I got a little carried away once I worked out the painting and sewing spells. And it didn’t seem like your style, yours and Q’s, so I went a little more classic and cheery in your room. I hope that’s okay with you.”

“It’s just so… _you,”_ Arielle said breathlessly. “And now you can hang your clothes!” she added, as she grazed her fingers over the carved doors of the armoire.

“I was going to get you one, too--” Eliot began, but Arielle cut him off.

“No, no, it wouldn’t fit in our room, and anyway I always fold my clothes, even my skirts. The dressers in our room are perfect,” she said, and hugged him tight around the waist. “Better than just a drawer, huh?” she laughed quietly into his chest. 

Eliot laughed with her, and she thought she heard relief in his voice. He kissed her head. “I wanted this to be about you, but somehow I got the fancy room.”

“No! El!” Arielle exclaimed, “After everything you-- and Q-- did for me, this whole--” she waved an arm as if to encompass the entire Mosaic, “and bringing me into your home, it’s just… it’s all just _perfect.”_ She began to cry softly into his chest.

“Q, your girlfriend is leaking on me,” Eliot laughed. “And she hasn’t seen it all yet! Could you take her to the trees?”

Quentin took her hand, Eliot following behind after leaning his cane against his bedroom wall, and led her to the door at the end of the hall. It turned out to be the back door, leading outside. Behind the house were her peach and plum trees, several feet apart, enough room for a worktable in between them, covered in the baskets she used for deliveries, the wagon tucked up next to it. A lantern on a pole glowed softly behind the table, lighting the workspace in the shade of the trees.

“Eliot got the baskets from Mama’s this morning,” Quentin said, as Arielle ran her fingers on the edge of the table in wonder. “You’ll be all ready for deliveries in two days, just a day off schedule.” I know you thought you’d get to go tomorrow, but look,” he said, pointing up at the trees. “We lost too much in the move yesterday to fill the orders.”

Before she could respond, Eliot piped up. “We should go attend to our guests, since we’re done with the tour, we just left them out there in the front yard.”

“I should just let them pick their own, probably, since they’re all here,” Arielle said, “and deliver tomorrow to those that didn’t get any.” Quentin shrugged in agreement as she reached over to catch Eliot’s hand before he left. “Wait,” she continued, “I just have to say, to both of you, thank you. This is… just beyond anything. Thank you.”

“All right, _enough!_ Enough with the _feels,”_ Eliot said, clutching his heart. “You are killing me softly. We were glad to do it, we are glad you’re here now, and we couldn’t have you living in the squalor we have subjected ourselves to for _far_ too long. And Team Queliot is hosting its first party as a complete unit, so let’s get out there and _host_ the damn thing! _Andele,”_ he added, letting go of Arielle’s hand and motioning them along in front of him. 

 

The housewarming party went well on into the night, but finally it was just Eliot, Quentin, and Arielle, sitting at the outdoor table, talking and laughing.

Eliot rose, slightly drunk and unsteady on his feet, and announced regally, “I... am going to retire to my quarters. Because I can. Arielle,” his face softening as he relaxed from his grand posture, “Welcome home.” Drawing himself back up again, he raised a finger into the air. “To bed! Or at least for me, you kids do what you want.” He waved a hand and sauntered, swaying, off to his room.

“What about you, sweetie? It’s been a long day,” Quentin said, leaning forward to wind the end of her braid around his fingers. Before she could answer, he leaned forward, his eyes widened slightly. “May I?” he asked, as he pulled on the ribbon that tied its end. She nodded and he gave a tug and pulled it away from her hair. “Can I… keep this? There’s a project El and I are working on--”

Her quizzical look cut him off, and he took a breath. He wound the ribbon around his fingers, and took both of her hands in his.

“Magic,” he continued. “We are working on a spell. It… protects… things. Time. Times that we don’t want to forget.”

“Why would you forget? You mean like when you’re old?”

“It’s, um, it has to do with the puzzle. When we solve it-- we get a-- a prize. We think it will be--” Quentin hesitated, tucking his hair behind his ear, frowning.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Arielle reassured him. “I know you have to keep secrets. To protect the quest. Eliot told me.”

“I know, but I think-- I think I have to. I think it’s important, somehow.” He took a deep breath. “The prize is a key. It’s for a larger quest we are-- were-- I’m not sure now-- but our friends back home are trying to work on it too. I guess. But I don’t think they can continue until we finish this because the book-- okay, that’s a bit off-topic. Anyway, look, our part of the larger quest is this puzzle. And we will get a key, and we’re pretty sure the key will have time magic. Do you-- do you understand what I mean?”

“I think so? Magic that can-- change time? Or make you move through time? Maybe I don’t,” Arielle frowned.

“No, you’ve got it, it can do all sorts of things,” Quentin said. “I think. We don’t really know. But it should be pretty powerful, and-- I mean-- I guess you could say we’re a little scared of it. We just want to make sure, _absolutely sure,_ that the time we put in here is protected, so that it never, _ever_ can be changed by any kind of time magic. And part of that is you--” he said, squeezing her hands tighter, “is _us,_ our being together, and Team Queliot and you and El, you know?” Tears were slowly moving down his cheek from his eyes, wide and fond, and Arielle lifted a hand to brush at them with her thumb, ignoring the tears trailing down her own cheeks. “And Mama, and Wick, and everyone. All of this. Our lives. The friends we met along the way,” he added airily with a wave of his hand and chuckled.

“The beauty of all life,” Arielle added in a whisper, her heart swelling.

“Yeah. If only we knew how to make a Mosaic pattern out of it,” Quentin agreed ruefully.

“And the ribbon is for-- your project? Is it a spell?” 

“Yes, we-- we need things that represent the time, the people. This ribbon, well,” he said, rubbing the satin with his thumb, “now it’s the ribbon you were wearing the night you moved in, so it’s-- it’s special. More than it already was, just by being yours at all, I mean.”

Arielle threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said into his hair. She pulled back again to sink her gaze into his beautiful brown pools, watery with tears. “Thank you for everything. Thank you for our home. Thank you for _you,”_ she said, and pulled him into a forever kiss. 

When that kiss grew hungrier, dirtier, and one of Quentin’s hands had found its way to her breast, the other sliding up her thigh, pushing up her skirt, she broke it off. “Shall we?”

“Break in the new bed?” Quentin grinned slyly, his eyes crinkling deliciously. “Yes. We should very much do that.”

He trailed behind her and she stopped to watch him take a last satisfied look around at the transformed surroundings, glittering in the lantern light. He tutted the lanterns out, and pulled the door behind him as he followed her in.

 

[end of Arrangements]

[Tell Mama is tbc!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know the canon better than I do, and you're saying to yourself, "but they can make enough water to fill a tub with a first-year spell that everyone knows, don't you remember Episode X or Book Y," please tell me about it in the comments! I just figured they didn't know one and had been using the well like Muggles, maybe heating it was already easy. And with no Brakebills library or anything, I guessed Q would have to work out the spell for them. But it's possible I'm being super dumb and if so please tell me so I can fix it! 
> 
> I've made the house in the Sims 2 (it's so rough, y'all, please forgive!) so you can see how I changed the floorplan in the renovation. Here is the link: https://imgur.com/a/qtQKj6k
> 
> Please visit the art director's web site here https://www.lisapouliot.com/art-direction/ to see the amazing photos she has there of the Muntjac and the Mosaic. Really stunning work. And she's added some images of the mosaic patterns too! I could not have done the descriptions of the house in my story without these amazing images.
> 
> I'm just going to copy the credits she lists on her site:  
> "Production Designer: Margot Ready . Illustrator: Ron Turner . Set Designers: Randy Hutniak | Hamish Rhodes | Will Wile . Graphic Designers: Sheila Turner | Deborah Burns | Kacey McDougall . Coordinator: Shannon McArthur"
> 
> Props (get it?) to all of these talented designers for their amazing work!!!!!!!!!!! All I did was describe it.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Can't wait to see your comments!


	24. Hearth and Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arielle negotiates her new home. Plus singing.

“Just tell him!” Arielle said, beyond annoyed that this not-fight was ruining their first morning after she’d moved into the Mosaic. “Quit telling _me_ about it and talk to _him.”_

“He won’t listen! He’ll make up some excuse as to why he’s right and he should get to do whatever, and in the end I’ll just end up letting him keep on because I’m tired of him talking.” Quentin blew on his tea to cool it, pulling his arm back from around her shoulders on the bench.

“Because you don’t make it clear that you’re serious! Honestly, Q, I don’t know how you’ve lived together this long.”

“Mostly by letting him do whatever he wants or finally having a fight about it! You don’t know, Ari, you just got here. Just wait.”

“Eliot!” Arielle called out to the open door of the house. “Could you not sing before we have our morning tea?”

“As you wish, Buttercup!” Eliot called back from the hearth.

“See?” Arielle smiled smugly into her mug.

“Oh sure, for _you,”_ Quentin sneered. “You two are _ride or die,_ right? And sing only when given permission?”

“You try, then.”

“Fine. Eliot,” he called out, “Could you, um,” he hesitated, as the singing request had now been handled, “could you not wait until you’ve run out of clothes to give me your laundry?”

Eliot came out of the house, frowning, wooden spoon in hand. “What is this, the Airing of Eliot's Faults Day?”

“You see!” Quentin exclaimed, then dropped his voice into a scowl. _“It only. works. for you.”_ He tucked a foot up on the bench and sucked on his tea.

“I’m trying to teach Quentin to be more direct, that’s all. Ask for what he wants, and not be so wishy-washy about it,” Arielle said.

“Well, have him practice on you, then,” Eliot growled, going back to the door. “I’m trying to cook the team breakfast in here.”

Quentin glared an _I told you so_ look at Arielle, who stuck out her tongue. 

“Look, there’s an example,” she said. “He wanted to make breakfast because he couldn’t wait to try out the new hearth. So I listened, and let him.”

“Let him have his way, you mean,” Quentin said, rolling his eyes. “I thought that’s what you were telling me _not_ to do.”

“But I wasn’t-- look. If I had said, ‘Eliot, what I really want is to cook breakfast on my first day living in my new home,’ then we could have had a _real_ conversation, about what we _really_ wanted. And I bet, if I felt that way _and told him so directly,_ he would probably have been happy to wait until lunch. A talk about how we _feel,_ and not just a fight about breakfast. Do you see what I mean?”

“Yeah…” Quentin sighed. “Talking about how we _feel_ is not really a skill El and I have. Like, ever.”

“I know,” Arielle said, and grew quiet. She knew quite a bit about the time they were lovers, bits and pieces from each man making a mosaic of her own. She was missing many of the tiles, but the picture was fairly clear. It didn’t seem like they had been on the same page about their erstwhile romance-- though they still loved each other and often said so-- and Eliot not being honest about his fears had a lot to do with that. Perhaps she was talking to the wrong member of Team Queliot.

But Quentin was just as bad-- always putting off what he wanted for Eliot, always assuming Eliot’s reasons were better than his, in the end, even if he fought him on it briefly. Eliot came first, always. And some of that was endearing, like filling a tub for him so it was ready when he came home from his weekly shift at the tavern. But some of it wasn’t, like letting Eliot sing into his face (as was his latest fancy) before he had any caffeine in his system, and letting the resentment grow with each passing morning until he started complaining savagely to Arielle. _This singing thing was about two days from Q punching him in the face,_ she thought, _if he were the punching sort_.

“Okay, I have to tell you, I now have Mel Torme in my head and I am simply _dying_ trying to keep him in,” Eliot said as he brought out plates, and nodded at them to come over to the table. “Breakfast, chickens.”

Quentin grumbled something Arielle couldn’t hear, but they both made their way to the table. 

“The biscuits aren’t _close_ to yours, dear,” Eliot said to Arielle, giving her a peck on the cheek. “This new hearth is going to take some getting used to.”

After a few more trips into the house to bring out everything, Eliot settled down to eat with them.

“It’s good, El, thanks. I’ll have to show you my biscuit trick. Aunt Essie had her ways. Now, we should talk,” Arielle went on, “about how I can help around here, the chores and such.”

“Oh, Ari, you don’t have to do anything, you have your business still,” Quentin said. “And it’s not like we brought you here to cook and clean for us."

“Q’s right,” Eliot added. “We eschew heteronormative traditions here at the Mosaic. You still have breakfast duty after today, that’s enough.”

“Nonsense. I live here, I clean here. I want to at least help. You two could maybe even do a fifth puzzle a day if I helped out with the other stuff.”

“Gee thanks, after all we’ve done to get you here,” Eliot scoffed, “it leads to more puzzling. _Hooray!”_ he added in a mock-cheer.

“Now watch, Q,” Arielle whispered, and turned to Eliot. “What I want, in my heart, is to feel like I’m helping the team. And to feel like no one has to clean up after me. Is there something I can do around here to make me feel that way?”

Eliot considered. “The thing is, we do a lot of it with magic. Like cleaning our clothes, for example. We use the line to dry them, sure, but we wash them and hang them up there with spells. Or rather, Quentin does. Dusting, putting things away, sweeping, raking the yard, we do it all with magic. Except chopping wood, which Quentin does to keep his biceps all perky for you.” He ignored Quentin’s growl. “Asking you to do any of this stuff would just mean making it take twice as long for you to do. We’d have to watch you struggling to do something we could do much easier.”

“So my feeling better would make you feel worse.” Arielle pressed him.

“Heart of the Team, Q, she’s all about the feels,” he muttered. “Yes, I would feel worse. Q would too, he’d always be jumping up to help you.”

“But, if I did something and you didn’t see it, like if I swept out the house while you were working on the puzzle and not paying attention, that would be okay?”

“I mean, I guess?” Eliot shrugged. “Would you be happy stealth-cleaning? I don’t know how to play this game.”

“I just mean, you wouldn’t be _mad_ if I did. If something just occurred to me to do, and I did it without checking with anyone, and you found out later, you’d be okay with it?”

“Yes? Is this some sort of trap?” Eliot said, eyes narrowing.

“No, silly. I just want to know what the boundaries are.”

“Okay, fine, here,” Eliot said with his Team Leader voice. “What about this: you cook breakfast. I still take care of lunch and dinner. You look for simple things to do-- nothing that would make you break a sweat because that is surely something we should be doing with magic-- as much as you feel like. You take care of your peaches and plums business. We do the rest as usual. And if we find one of our chores already done, then I guess it’s Miller Time. I mean, an extra break. Deal?”

“Deal. As long as you tell me right away if you feel like I’m not pulling my weight. If you don’t say anything, I’m going to assume you’re happy. Deal?”

“Deal,” Eliot shrugged.

Arielle looked squarely at Quentin, _and that’s how it’s done._ He rolled his eyes back at her, _for you, maybe_.

 _Team Queliot is going to need some more work,_ she thought. 

When they were done eating, Eliot checked the teapot conspicuously, and confirming it was empty, said to Quentin with a grin, “Can I let ol’ Mel out now? He’s so bored in here.”

Quentin shrugged, but Arielle could tell he was feeling less grumpy with a stomach full of tea and breakfast. Eliot accepted this as permission, as well.

 _[“Sing for your supper and you'll get breakfast!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nJfHNBDIJlE) Songbirds always eat,” _ he broke out as they all cleared the table. “ _If their song is sweeeet to hear! I heard from wise canary, trilling makes a fellow willing, so little swallow, swallow now!”_ He bumped Quentin with his hip as he passed him, smirking with the double entendre, making Quentin laugh despite himself. _“Now is the time to sing for your supper and you'll get breakfast, so sing, just sing, lalalalalalalalalalalala, and you'll be fed!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, El skipped a few lines of the song because I thought it was too long. He wants you to know that he _does_ know all the words. :)
> 
> I originally wrote this for the Queliot Week 2019 "roommates" prompt, and since I was in the middle of writing the last chapter at the time, it ended up as a sort of coda to it. It does set up the next chapter, though, in which the new hearth plays a role. (I've edited it a bit since I first posted it.) Not much but a bit of domesticity, so it's your bonus chapter for the week. :) 
> 
> Also, here's the link to the imgur album of my (very rough) Sims 2 build of the transformation! https://imgur.com/a/qtQKj6k It's mostly just to show the altered floorplan, it's not very accurate otherwise, but it does the trick! :)


	25. You Can Make Me Little Cakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An idea, a realization, some art, three ovens, and a bath.

 

It began with Arielle getting bored. She wasn’t a guest anymore, and so her presence didn’t stop her men from going about their business. They didn’t need much help, as Eliot had explained, and the fruit deliveries only took up two days of the week. 

But there was the new hearth to get used to, so she baked biscuits to show Eliot how Aunt Essie, the baker, had made them.

And then she baked bread.

When she had extra peaches and plums, she baked pies.

And then she made Eliot’s birthday cake. And Quentin’s. And Mama’s. And one for the twins, but then she made two because after all, it was only fair.

“Sorry I didn’t get here sooner,” Arielle huffed as she delivered a cake for Cleve’s birthday party at the tavern. “Had to wait for the bread to come out.”

“Honey,” Mama said, as she relieved Arielle of her burden, “why don’t you just take over the bakery? There’s three ovens in there. And we haven’t had a baker here in-- oh, since Malbe died and that was-- well, over 20 years ago, now.”

“Oh, it’s just a hobby. Nothing good enough to trade for in a proper bakery.”

“But good enough to pass on to your friends as gifts? You’d have these same people as customers.”

 _She has a point there,_ Arielle thought.

And she thought.

And thought.

“I am going to reopen the bakery,” she announced one night at dinner. 

Eliot and Quentin both stopped short. They each burst out a question at the same time.

“You can just open the bakery?” Eliot asked, confused.

“But when you come with us--” Quentin began, and then it was Eliot and Arielle who stopped short.

“Q--” Eliot said softly, but Quentin cut him off.

“I know we haven’t talked about it yet, El, but she _has_ to come with us, right? My girlfriend and your ride or die, I mean, El, c’mon.”

“Sorry, Ari, hold on-- Q, yes, she means a lot to us. And she’s also sitting right here. Do you want to get her consent before you start making plans for her life?”

“Oh my god, Ari, I’m so sorry. Will you-- I mean, would you want to, when we’ve finished the quest, would you-- come with us, back home?”

“Come with you?” Arielle blinked slowly. _That doesn’t make any sense,_ she thought. _They never leave the Village. And with three ovens I could easily-- well, I’d probably need an apprentice, but--_

“Yes, home, Earth. New York,” Quentin was saying, but she wasn’t listening anymore.

“Q--”

“I’ve already told her, El. Of course.”

“Okay…” Eliot said slowly, putting down his fork.

“So apparently the bakery hasn’t been open in decades,” Arielle continued as if there had been no interruption. “And I’m making so many things for people I can’t keep up with only the hearth. I might need some help, though. But anyway it would keep me out of your hair, I’d be in town most of the day.”

“But Ari, you still haven’t answered. _Will you come with us?”_ Quentin asked, his voice rising in pitch. He sounded upset for some reason.

“Come with you where? You never leave the Village. Is there some reason you won’t stay on topic, Q?” Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you liked that I worked. Have you changed your mind?”

“No, I-- I mean, it’s great, I think it’s great, for you, I’m all for you working, but--”

“Q, I don’t think she can hear you,” Eliot said softly.

“Fine, you try, then.”

“No, I mean, I think it’s-- _the enchantment,”_ he whispered.

“But that’s-- that means--” Quentin’s eyes widened, and then his face fell.

“If she can’t even hear the question, Quentin, she just-- she _doesn’t_ go with us,” Eliot agreed, his voice solemn and low. 

“I wonder if the twins are old enough to apprentice,” Arielle said, still lost in thought over her plans for the bakery. “I should ask Gana.”

Quentin looked like he was going to cry. _Does he want me to pick_ him _to work there?_ Arielle wondered.

“Ari, do you not want to leave here, ever?” he asked with a croak.

“Leave? No, I think I’ve found my home,” she said with a wink and a pat on his knee. “And I’d ask you to work at the bakery but sweetheart, you have to do the puzzle all day. Your prize is important, I wouldn’t take away from that.”

“I need-- I need some air,” Quentin said, and got up from the outdoor table and went inside.

“Is he all right, El?” Arielle, asked, worried. He hadn’t had the sadness since she’d moved in, but she knew it could come without warning.

“I’m not sure,” Eliot said carefully. “It isn’t his brain, this time. I think he’s had a bit of a shock.”

“Over my opening the bakery? How is that shocking?”

“Ari, turn this way,” Eliot said, and they turned their chairs and he brought his closer till their knees touched. “Look right into my eyes, okay?” He took her hands. “I want you to listen, really listen, hard, to what I’m about to say, okay? Like a game.”

She nodded with a smile. 

“When we solve the puzzle, we get a key.”

“Yes, a time key, I know. A very powerful, very scary key.”

“Yes, good. And the key will open a door. Are you listening? Say that back to me.”

“The key opens a door.”

“Yes, good, that’s good, you’re doing great,” Eliot said, squeezing her hands, and she smiled. So far this game was easy. “And Quentin and I are going to go through that door, and end up back home again, back on Earth. Say that back to me.”

“But you can’t-- leave--” Arielle’s eyes flickered, and she blinked.

“Oh, Ari,” Eliot sighed deeply. He tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “We will. We are leaving. And when we go, we want you to come with us.”

“But you never leave the Village. Mama said you can’t for some reason, I don’t remember,” Arielle said, but she grew worried at Eliot’s sad eyes. “Is that-- is that the right answer? For this game, whatever it is?”

“It is-- it’s not the one I _want,_ but yes, I got what I needed. It’s the right answer for you, apparently.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know. It’s okay,” he said kindly. She couldn’t figure out why he was handling her so delicately. “Did you know Quentin and I can tell the future?”

“No, you can’t,” Arielle laughed. 

“We can, in a way, a little bit. Not from what people say, like Mama, but from what people don’t say, can’t say. _Que sera, sera,”_ he sang softly. _“Whatever will be, will be._ Did he tell you about the spell we are working on? He must have, we enchanted your ribbon.”

“Yes, he did. Something to protect this time.”

“That’s right. This time is protected. Already. We can tell by the way people talk to us, the spell is working, even though we haven’t cast it yet. And that means we’ve already done it, do you see?”

“I confess I’m not great with time stuff. Unless we get high, then maybe.” _Although I feel high already,_ she thought. _This conversation feels… weird. And fuzzy._ _Less so now that it’s about the spell, though._

Eliot laughed heartily. “Girl, I feel you. I wish we had peyote. But okay, so the spell works backwards through time from when we cast it, which means we are living in the time the spell is affecting. And we can see these effects, so we can kind of... tell what is meant to be, what we can’t change because we’ve already preserved it. Oh, I wish this were Q telling you all this, he’d be so much better at it.”

Arielle looked worriedly at the door, from which Quentin had not yet reemerged. “Should we get him?”

“No, he-- it’s that-- I think he’s just found out that… the treasures of life are fleeting. I don’t know what he’s going to do with that.”

“Well, _this_ here treasure’s here for good!” Arielle declared. “I feel like-- I feel like something just happened, something’s changed, or you’re trying to tell me-- something important, and bad. But I can’t-- I can’t understand.” She frowned.

“Sweetheart, please don’t worry, everything is going to be just as it should be,” Eliot said quietly, but there was an ache in his voice. “And Quentin will see that, eventually, I hope. It might not mean what he thinks… I need to talk to him. Could you clear dinner? And then we’ll light a fire and you can tell me all about your bakery idea. I have _so_ many questions.”

*

Eliot opened the door slowly. “Q, sorry, but, can I come in?”

“Forgotten knocking?” Quentin muttered from the bed, where he was laying on top of the quilt in a ball.

“The silencing wards, it wouldn’t have worked,” Eliot said, as he shut the door and came over to lean against the wall. “So, talk.”

“About my impending breakup? That could be years away, or tomorrow? No thank you,” Quentin snapped.

“That might not be why she doesn’t go. Maybe you stay here, with her,” Eliot said, eyes fixed on the toe of his boot.

“What?” Quentin shoved his hair out of his face, and looked up, confused. Apparently this hadn’t occurred to him. “But what about--”

“The quest, I know,” Eliot sighed. “But maybe you change your mind about that by then. It could be years away, like you said.” 

“I wouldn’t send you back alone. We-- we can’t--”

“Yeah,” Eliot sighed, his voice thick. “Except we can.”

The long silence was broken by a sob from Quentin. “I lose her or I lose you,” he said angrily.

“Welcome to life, Q. We don’t get to keep anything,” Eliot said, his voice cracking. “I thought it was just me, but…” 

“Maybe it is, maybe _you_ lose her! Maybe she grows to hate you and won’t come back because of you!” Quentin lashed out.

“FUCK YOU, QUENTIN!” Eliot screamed, pounding a fist back on the wall, tears flooding his eyes. _“Fuck_ you! Don’t you _dare_ blame this on me! I have done nothing but support your relationship--”

“Shove me at her, you mean,” Quentin said darkly.  

“I don’t know what the _fuck_ that is supposed to mean! But _you’re_ not the one who loses here, Coldwater,” Eliot spat back. “You get exactly what you always dreamed of, golden boy. The universe just keeps chucking whatever you want at you like it’s your fucking djinn. But I lose her, and you, and you don’t even-- _fuck,_ I can’t--” he grabbed for the doorhandle with his hand, tearing it open, and slammed it with his magic as he went out.

*

Arielle had cleared the table and was washing up when she heard one bedroom door slam, then the other. _Can a bakery cause this much trouble?_ she wondered. 

When no one emerged from their rooms, she went outside and lit the fire, since Eliot wasn’t there to do it. She was bored, again, and it felt eerie to feel that way at night. _Like I’m a ghost, haunting the place,_ she thought, and shivered. She added another log to the fire.

 _I’ll work on the menu,_ she thought, and went inside to get a pen and parchment from a dresser in the hall. The two bedroom doors were still closed. The only quill in the drawer had a broken tip, so she wandered back outside. She picked up Quentin’s puzzle notebook and the bowl of pastels and took them to the table, and began to draw.

*

Quentin sat up when he heard the paper slide under the door.

It was a drawing, with his pastels, of a large, red heart. In the center were the letters Q and A, the tails of the letters intertwined like vines that had little hearts for fruit. Underneath it read _4EVA_ , which made Quentin laugh despite of himself.

The truth was, while he felt terrible that he had hurt Eliot, a little glimmer of hope sprang up, deep in his heart, when he heard Eliot theorize that he stayed. In Fillory. Forever. This wasn’t the Fillory he dreamed of as a child, kingdoms and quests and magical creatures-- he’d had that as an adult and it turned out to be a trap of chaos from a capricious god, of which the single brightest moment was with only his Brakebills friends on a deserted beach. But in a way, this was the _perfect_ Fillory, a sweet little village in a magical land, The Shire, where no one is ever in danger and everyone accepts and loves you for exactly who you are, faults and all. For a split second, he wondered if he had died-- _did I finally do it?--_ and just didn’t remember it. 

Another drawing came under the door. It was of a little stick figure in a dress and an apron, next to a giant cupcake, one that would have been stories tall if it were to scale. The stick figure wore a big smile. Off to the side were two cheering stick figures, one with long hair jumping for joy into the air. _YAY ARI,_ it said over their heads.

 _We aren’t leaving her,_ he thought.

*

Eliot was pacing angrily in his room. “That fucking ungrateful _child,”_ he seethed aloud, knowing he couldn’t be heard. “Margo would have his balls on a plate. He accuses _me_ of-- He’s going to stay here in his perfect little dream world with the perfect girl, and I’m going to have to go back alone and face it all without-- and he gets to-- aarrgghh!” He desperately wanted a cigarette. 

He nearly stepped on the paper as it came under the door. It was a drawing of a large red horse, its brown mane and tail flowing behind it. On top of the horse were two little stick figures, and above that, the letters _E + A._ Underneath the horse it said, _Ride or Die._ Little hearts were drawn all around it.

Eliot sank onto his bed, his elbows on his knees. He always _knew_ he was going back, he just-- didn’t think about it. Wouldn’t let himself. And anyway, he never _wanted_ to think about it. He might be under enchantment, too-- one that smoothed out the contradictions of always staying and always leaving-- but he didn’t need it for this. He was a master at packing things he didn’t want to think about into little boxes and shoving them into the back of his mind. _Hide the evidence._

 _So how is this different?_ he wondered. _Because Quentin stays. Because I go back alone._

Then came another paper, floating to land on top of the first, of Ari and a skyscraper of a cupcake, with he and Quentin cheering her on.

A fresh pang of pain. A life without Arielle. She’d only been in their lives less than a year, but he couldn’t imagine, didn’t _want_ to, what it would mean to lose her. _I always knew that was coming, too. That’s in a box in here somewhere._

He continued to stare at the papers for several minutes, not wanting to touch them, when the door finally began to crack open.

“El,” Quentin said, as his face came around the door, his hair loose and darkening his face in shadow, “can I come in?”

Eliot gave a feeble wave of his hand. Quentin moved inside, careful to step over the papers, which he picked up and added to the ones in his hand. He closed the door and leaned on it.

“So I--” He tucked his hair behind his ear and took a breath. “I’m sorry. What I said about-- about you and Ari, that was-- that was crazy.”

“You’re not crazy, Q, don’t say that,” Eliot piped up reflexively.

“No, I mean-- I don’t even know how that came out of my mouth. I don’t believe that, that you could ever push Ari away. I think, sometimes-- that she loves you more than me? And somehow it’s really you two and I get… left behind somehow. Anyway,” he said to stop Eliot from interjecting, “look, that’s not all I wanted to say. The thing is, like, we both looked at the same data and drew different conclusions. So who’s to say that either one of us is right? What if it’s something else entirely? We cobbled together a spell from our asses, El, we don’t really know how it works.”

He looked down at the papers in his hand, and it seemed to fill him with new resolve. He took a step forward and leaned over Eliot, tapping the papers as he spoke. “We are going to figure this out, Eliot. She _will_ come with us. Maybe we just need another spell, or… I don’t know. _But we aren’t going to leave her behind.”_  

“You won’t, anyway,” Eliot said darkly.

“Eliot. Why are you so fixated on this? Do you _want_ to go back alone?”

“No! Yes… Q, back home is a horror show. I don’t want to lose either one of you, but do you really want to bring Ari back to all that? When you could just stay and be safe and happy?”

Quentin ran a hand through his hair as he straightened and turned, as if he could pace in this tiny space. He stared wildly at the ceiling, then gave a quick and rueful laugh. “Do I want to see Ari stick her tongue out at Alice and kick her in the shins? Kinda do, yeah.”

“Oh shit, I would have two _ride or die bitches,”_ Eliot giggled. “They’d either kill each other or dump me.”

“She might dump me too! Margo could marry her and make her a Queen’s Consort.” 

“Oh my god, the sex would be _so hot,”_ Eliot groaned playfully, clutching his heart and falling back on the bed. “Maybe they would let us watch.”

“Eliot, for god’s sake--” Quentin laughed. He sat down on the side of the bed and fell back himself, perpendicular to Eliot and with his ribs near the crown of Eliot’s head. “We’re gonna figure this out, El,” he said, soft but serious. 

Eliot raised a hand up by his head and found Quentin’s, entwining their fingers. “And if we don’t?”

“Then we’ll-- we’ll have a choice to make. And whatever it is, it will be the right one, the one we wanted to protect, or we couldn’t do it. And anyway,” he said, stretching his fingers from Eliot’s to push into his curls, “I wouldn’t let you do anything that was bad for you, you know that, right?”

“Q, I’d do it if you needed it.”

“I know. But I can’t imagine needing it as much as I need you to be okay.”

Eliot squeezed his hand, and turned his head so Quentin couldn’t see the tears welling up in his eyes, though Quentin was staring up at the velvet canopy.

“I’m sorry I’m not-- as strong as you,” Quentin said. “I know I need a lot from you, more than you should have to give. I wish-- But it’s-- look, what you said about the djinn, I admit, this is all like a dream, The Village and Ari, and having magic, and even the stupid puzzle, it’s-- it’s like-- it was all made for me. Peace, finally, in Fillory, where I always thought I’d find it. But I know that’s not you, not when you have a choice. And maybe, somehow, those are the choices we make, I don’t know.”

“Why can we even talk about this?” Eliot said, his voice heavy. “Doesn’t that mean that’s how it is, since it’s not blocking us?”

“I mean, the enchantment should only block actions that keep us from fulfilling the timeline. Maybe theorizing doesn’t matter. Maybe what we think _now_ doesn’t matter because things will change. Unknown unknowns.”

“Please don’t quote [war criminals](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/There_are_known_knowns).” 

“He wasn’t wrong-- I mean, he was totally wrong in context but it’s a useful framing. There are things we don’t even _know_ we don’t know. And anyway, nothing we’ve thought of yet makes us stop looking for the key, so.” Quentin rustled the papers in his hand, adjusting his grip on them.

“She drew us pictures,” Eliot said. 

“Yep.”

“Show me yours.”

Quentin handed over the whole stack, and Eliot let go of his hand to take them and shuffle through them. 

“I got more hearts than you,” Eliot said smugly.

“Mine’s bigger.”

“Feel good to say that for once? You know daddy likes you just how you are,” Eliot smirked, earning a light smack to the head that mostly tossed his curls over his face. He shook them off and reached back to find the most ticklish spot on Quentin’s side. He knew just where to find it, and Quentin immediately flailed to move out of his reach.

“You bastard!” he giggled. 

Eliot was back to looking at the drawings Arielle had made for each of their relationships, side-by-side. “We’ll find a way?”

“Yes.”

“Should she open the bakery, then? If she might have to leave it?”

“That’s what _I_ said. But, I mean, you know how it’s been. Probably won’t be soon anyway. And if it makes her happy...”

“Alright then,” Eliot said, sitting up. “We can’t leave her out there any longer. Let’s get out there and find out about this bakery idea. I don’t understand how she can just open it without, I don’t know, some kind of permit? Or why there’s been an empty bakery here all this time.”

*

Arielle was back at the firepit, trying to keep it from going out, and trying to keep herself from worrying too much. _If they have a problem with the bakery, well,_ she thought, _I just don’t know what._

“Ari, stand back,” she heard Eliot call out, and she obeyed instinctively, looking up at him.

He had a hand out with which he gave a flick, and the fire leapt up. His other hand was holding Quentin’s, their eyes a bit puffy and red, but they were smiling. _Okay, so that all worked out, I guess_ , she thought with relief. _I knew the cupcakes would get to them,_ she added smugly, and grinned.

“All right, now, I thought I understood everything about Fillorian economic structure but clearly I’m missing something. Who owns the bakery?” Eliot said as he took the bench across from her, and Quentin came around to sit behind her.

“Um, the town? Or, no one? I don’t know what you mean,” Arielle said, snuggling into Quentin’s arms and swinging her legs up to Eliot’s lap, as was their custom. “Is this going to be like the last question game we played?” she added grumpily.

“No, I’m sure you can tell me about this. About why there are empty shops in the village. Did something happen to the town, or…?” Eliot fished in his pocket and produced a pipe, which he began to pack from a pouch.

“Um, no?” Arielle looked back at Quentin for help. He always knew how to get through to Eliot, and she was grateful he was here this time. “It’s like, one per town, you know?”

“Ah, right, okay. So El,” Quentin said in a voice that always reminded Arielle of a school teacher, “Apparently, we’re not doing competition here. There’s no Diamond District, no Rodeo Drive. It’s just one shop of each kind per town. Or village.” He turned to Arielle. “And who built them?”

Arielle shrugged. “They’re just… here?” She took the pipe from Eliot and let him light it for her.

“They’re just here. Okay,” Quentin shrugged. “I mean, yeah, sure. Magic. Fillory. Whatever. Do you buy them, or just like… claim them?” 

“Claim them, I mean, who would we buy them from? Like Hund did with the general store, around the time you came, wasn’t it?” Arielle asked, passing the pipe back to Quentin and sitting up more so he could use it.

“They got here just before we did,” Eliot said, “and I thought it was because Nalie came to be the school teacher when Biddy retired.” 

“Well, yeah, I mean, I think that’s why they came here _then,”_ Arielle shrugged, “but Hund just took the shop over himself. I guess the last guy moved to Town a few months before. Word is, he hated the blacksmith, who was a drunk, but he ended up leaving too.”

“This all goes back,” Quentin said in his teacher voice, which was undermined somewhat by trying to speak while holding his breath,.“to what Ari was telling me about how young people move all the time.” He exhaled and continued, passing the pipe back to Eliot. “That it takes time to settle since you’re looking for a place that needs the thing you can do, and in the meantime they apprentice and get better until they find the right town. Or village.”

“Right, but, why are so many shops empty in our village? If there are young people scouring the countryside looking for work?” Eliot asked, taking another hit and passing the pipe for another round.

“There’s not _that_ many,” Arielle said. “And anyway, this place is really a backwater. I mean, I thought Town was in the middle of nowhere, but Ember’s balls, this place is like the _ass end_ of nowhere. It doesn’t surprise me at all that people aren’t jumping at the chance to end up out here.”

Quentin and Eliot shared a look, then Eliot rolled his eyes. “Nowhere,” he scoffed.

“I mean, don’t take offense?” Arielle said. “You’re more locals than me, I don’t mean to disrespect your home or anything.”

Eliot laughed heartily. “Hey! We’re locals! We should register to vote! Oh wait, we can’t do that here. Fucking monarchy.”

“Only because it’s not us,” Quentin said, sputtering on the pipe as he tried to exhale on the line.

“Darling, no one would be more fucked than us.”

“Cheers to that,” Quentin replied, reaching over Arielle to hand back the pipe to where it began, saluting Eliot with it in the process.

“So, you’ll claim the bakery, and…” Eliot prompted Arielle.

“And it will take some cleaning out, that’s the first thing. But it has _three_ ovens! So when it’s set up I could do a lot more. Maybe even get Gee and Gabby to come help, if they want. I think they’re about ready to learn a trade...”

*

It began with Arielle getting bored, but now Arielle was exhausted at the end of her opening day. She had baked all the day before, Gabby assisting while Gee finished cleaning out the apartment upstairs. The villagers came in a steady stream, staggered throughout the day, and nearly bought out all of her inventory. She had continued to bake all of this day, too, hardly taking the time to visit with her customers, for fear she would have nothing tomorrow.

When she had finally pulled the shutters, she collapsed in a chair. The bell over the door gave a chime. “We’re closed,” she said without opening her eyes. “Come back tomorrow.”

“It’s us, sweetheart,” Quentin said, as he came in with Eliot behind him. He had been by several times to check on her, but had gone back to help clean up the last puzzle of the day.

Eliot immediately turned on his heel to go back out. “I’m drawing her a bath,” he declared over his shoulder and waved the door closed behind him. He didn’t need to see the bakery, as he had decorated it.

“Well, how did it go? Sell your cupcakes… like hotcakes? Sorry, that doesn’t work,” Quentin laughed as he helped her up on her feet.

“Success!” she cheered weakly. “Or death, you know, first one then the other,” she sighed. “I don’t know how Essie did it day after day.”

“Well, now you know why she took so many baths, I guess,” Quentin said. “Can I do anything to help you close up?”

*

 _Not bored anymore, nosiree,_ Arielle thought wearily as she soaked in her bath. She played with the flower petals Eliot had floated on the water. She had two jobs now, and a staff. _And sore feet._ She wriggled her toes.

Eliot had been singing something all morning-- after tea-- something like _“[She can turn the world on with her smile](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LfZBZBVlFcY),” _ and he’d wished she would throw a hat in the town square for some reason as they walked her to work that morning. _Silly Eliot,_ she thought. _Always a song for everything. Poor Q._

He appeared around the door just then, knocking softly with one hand and holding a mug of wine in the other. “Just wanted to see if you, um, needed anything. I mean, you might want to be alone and that’s okay--” he said, handing the mug to her.

“Boo, I’d love it if you rubbed my feet,” Arielle said sweetly, pointing her toes in the air.

“As you wish,” Quentin said with a smile, and knelt beside the tub to take one of her feet in his hands.

“You always say that, both of you. Does it… mean something? You say it like it’s special--oh--” she sighed as he worked on her foot.

“It’s from a movie. The longer reflection stories? This one’s called _The Princess Bride._ It’s about a boy who works on a farm and falls in love with the girl who lives there. But he never tells her--”

“Why not? Mmm, that’s good there,” she said as he ran his strong hands over the arch of her foot.

“I think-- I think maybe he’s afraid? He thinks she’s too good for him, I guess.”

“Does she love him back?”

“Yes,” Quentin said, raising her leg so he can work on her ankle.

“Mmm… But she doesn’t tell him?”

“Not at first. This is just the opening scene, it doesn’t last long before the story gets going.”

“Okay, so what about ‘as you wish’?”

“It’s the only thing he says to her, when he’s trying to say he loves her, no matter what she asks him to do, like around the farm, he only says, ‘as you wish’. And one day she realizes he’s saying ‘I love you’.”

“Well, I mean, that’s dumb. They never have real conversations and he just does whatever she says. And this is really romantic, to you?” Arielle asked, her eyes narrowing.

“No-- I mean, I get what you’re saying. But it’s like, a montage-- where a whole life is set up in just little bits of scenes strung together? So we don’t see _everything_ that happens between them. And there’s one famous kiss in it, that’s how you know they became a couple. But it’s not what happens then, it’s what happens later. He leaves her to go off and become a pirate--”

“Yes, this sounds _terribly_ romantic,” Arielle scoffed.

“Will you _listen?”_ Quentin said, splashing at her a little. “I’m getting there. He goes off to make himself a better man, to make himself worthy of her. And _then--”_ he stressed to keep her from interrupting again, “she gets chosen to marry a prince, and then she gets kidnapped--”

“I’m going to have to hear this whole thing, at some point. It does sound exciting, if not--”

“I’m getting to the romantic part! Look, she gets kidnapped and then she gets rescued by a pirate she’s never seen before--”

“Is it him?” Arielle interjected excitedly.

 _“Yes,_ Ari,” he laughed, “and she figures it out when he falls down a mountain crying out, ‘As you wish!’ and _that,_ finally, is why it’s romantic.” He lowered her foot into the water and took hold of the other.

“Because it’s like a code…” Arielle sighed with delight, sinking back down into the water. “Their special thing. Even though it meant something else before, now it’s like, [‘It’s really me’.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LzMG0qy2dUo) Do they end up together?”

“Spoilers!” Quentin exclaimed. “But yes, I mean, there’s not much question, you can tell they’re endgame the whole time.”

“Endgame?”

“That’s like-- the couple that’s always meant to get together at the end of the story, even if they can’t get it to work at first, or they break up, or one of them is with someone else for a while, in the end they’re the couple that’s always meant to be. In stories, I mean. I’m not sure it works that way in real life.”

“Me neither,” Arielle said simply. “Life just seems too random for all that. Like you and Eliot, just showing up here, in a town I just happened to move to. We find each other, and hold on while we can, that’s all. That’s all anyone can ask for, really. Oh, I’m sorry,” she said when she saw Quentin’s furrowed brow, “I know I shouldn’t talk like that, it’s prettier when we say ‘forever’ and all that, it’s just, I think maybe it’s simpler than that even. Not just ‘forever’, but ‘today’.” She put a wet hand on his arm. “You’re here with me, right now--”

“I know,” Quentin said thickly, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. “And I’m _going_ to find a way, I promise, to keep us together, whether you come with me or I stay here-- but you’re right. You’re right, Ari,” he said softly to her confused look, reaching a hand to her cheek, “today is what matters. I just-- I--” and he leaned in and kissed her, strong and deep, dragging his shirt through the water to press closer to her. “I love you,” he breathed into her mouth.

“As you wish,” she whispered, carding her wet hands through his hair. He smiled against her lips as they fell into a forever kiss and he all but fell into the bath.  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first song is Que Sera Sera by Doris Day, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xZbKHDPPrrc, and though there's barely any of it here, Eliot wants you to know it was stuck in his head for like a WEEK after that.
> 
> The second one is the theme to the Mary Tyler Moore Show, which for you youngsters was about a-- gasp!-- working woman in the 70s. :) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LfZBZBVlFcY
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I have no idea how this weird "the village just comes with shops" thing is supposed to work but it just felt very... like Sims-like, almost? And also like it was all created in the mind of a silly pair of god-brothers, like there is too much pre-planning (Umber) so there's more shops than they need, and not enough planning (Ember) to actually make enough NPCs to man them, if that makes sense? Anyway, I've been having fun with it and it's all been in the back of my mind for a while, glad to work it in finally, hope the econ class wasn't too boring, lol. At least we got to get high during it. :)
> 
> ps really trying to keep up with posting every Monday, so thanks for stopping by, PLEASE COMMENT because I freaking love to hear your words, and see you next Monday! 
> 
> <3<3<3  
> Trillian


	26. That's Entertainment (1974)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Movie Night!

Movie Night started over dinner.

Eliot and Quentin didn’t talk about leaving anymore. Their agreed-upon belief that they would find a way to bring Arielle to Earth felt fragile and unsteady to both of them, and even the odd “When Arielle sees--” or “When we get back, Ari will--” felt heavy, like it could tip everything into deeper waters, and soon they avoided it altogether. The enchantment made it easier, smoothed things out, their emotions and their thoughts. Quentin tried to think of spells or other tricks to take Arielle with them, or scenarios in which the enchantment’s effects on her did not mean that she stayed behind, but something always distracted him, and he’d realize later he’d never come up with anything, only to have it happen again. Eliot seemed to have forgotten all about it, calmly laying tiles and picking them up again as if that alone was the point. Life went on as it had before, day after day, the puzzle and the bakery and the fruit and nights by the fire, their quiet routine broken only by the occasional dinner with friends, until Movie Night.

Movie Night really began the night the Mosaics invited Nalie and Hund over for dinner. As their closest neighbors, Arielle had formed a friendship with the schoolteacher, walking to work together each morning, and the two houses had taken to trading dinner visits.

“Q, tell Nalie the ‘as you wish’ thing,” Arielle said. “I keep trying to explain it but I’m not doing as good a job, because she thinks it’s dumb too."

“Not _dumb,”_ Nalie said kindly, in a voice she used with her students. “Just impractical. Even as a code. Words are important, we need to choose them carefully and use them wisely.”

“Mm-hmm,” Hund grunted in agreement as he reached for a roll. He was a man of few words, usually, even when interacting with customers at his general store.

“Though it has occurred to me,” Nalie continued, “that by trying to turn something like ‘as you wish’ and this pirate fellow and his farm girl into a real couple, with ups and downs and real life all around them, might well be attempting to turn poetry into prose. Perhaps we’re not meant to look at it so closely.” 

“I think that’s right,” Quentin said. “The original book-- and the movie-- is really more about taking a traditional fantasy story and prodding at the archetypes, so it does tend to reduce--”

"For the love of all that is holy, how did I end up in a literature seminar?” Eliot groaned.

“Oh, like you don’t love _The Princess Bride._ Please. I sat right over there--” Quentin pointed at the puzzle, “--and listened to you go on and on about how that old lady that boos in her dream is representative of the way we turn on ourselves to protect us from a society that wants to demean us--”

“All right, fine. I get a little high sometimes when we work on the puzzle, it happens,” Eliot shrugged with a dismissive wave of his hand. He was not ready to admit one of his deepest secrets at the dinner table-- that he’d written fanfic of _The Princess Bride_ as a teenager, in a spiral notebook hidden from his brothers beneath a floorboard under his bed, replacing Buttercup with a well-dressed boy named Bobby Joe. The smut of the farm scenes was only surpassed by that of the pirate ship scenes, when Wesley was trapped on a ship with a hundred muscled men. 

“Just _tell_ it, Q! So they know what you’re talking about,” Arielle said, motioning to their guests.

“If Eliot will help,” Quentin said, and Eliot nodded agreement, the flush on his neck left unexplained, as he finished the last bite of his meal.

“Okay, well, it’s kind of strange,” Quentin began with a laugh, pushing back from the table, “because it actually all starts with a grandpa telling this story to his grandson, who is sick in bed, so it’s like he’s telling it to the kid, and now I’m telling it to you, but whatever. I guess I’ll just tell the main story, although it’s funnier when we keep cutting back to the kid and he’s like--”

“‘Is this a kissing book?’” Eliot quoted in a little boy voice, and everyone laughed. “Just get on with the main story, Q.”

“Okay, so. There’s a little farm, and on the farm lived a girl named Buttercup, and working on the farm was a boy named Wesley, but she never called him that…”

Over the next couple of hours, Quentin and Eliot together managed to get out most of the tale, laughing and backtracking, with Quentin shooting a curious look at Eliot when he added something he’d forgotten was from one of his own stories. 

They stood and acted out the sword fights with their forks, Quentin chasing Eliot around the table saying things like, “You’re using Bonetti’s defense against me, ha?” and when he finally had Eliot pinned down to the table in front of their amazed friends, Eliot saying, “I have something to tell you, I’m not left-handed either,” and pushing him off to restart the fight. 

When they reached the end of the story, Eliot caught Quentin into his arms and looked lovingly into his eyes, then turned back to the group.

“Since the invention of the kiss, there have been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind. The end,” Eliot finished rapturously-- without actually kissing him-- and he avoided Quentin’s wide astonished eyes blinking furiously up at him even as he tightened his grip on the shorter man’s waist to keep him upright as his knees went weak.

"Ember’s balls, that’s hot,"Arielle muttered under her breath as they all clapped and the men bowed. 

Nalie was crying her eyes out into Hund’s shoulder. “Pregnant,” Hund grunted. “Been doin’ this a lot.”

“Oh Nalie!” Arielle cried out, and Nalie fell into her arms for a long, swaying hug.

“Well, Hund, you finally did it. Congratulations, man, that’s fantastic,” Eliot said, shaking his hand. “Will Nalie’s sister be free to midwife, like you’d planned?” 

 

*

Later, when they were taking plates in, Quentin was still giving Eliot an odd look. “What?” Eliot said. “Hund and I talk. At the shop. And they’ve been trying for ages, now, and I think Hund was starting to worry they couldn’t manage it. Although, you know, it’s hard to tell with him.”

“I’m just surprised you’re so baby-happy, that’s all,” Quentin shrugged.

“What’s not to be happy about a baby? They’re the only truly good ones.”

“It’s just, you’re so--”

“What, Q?” Eliot said, irritated, putting a hand to his hip. “Such a terrible father?”

“No! _God,_ no! I wasn’t even thinking about-- _no._ Don’t you say that about yourself. And anyway you didn’t _get_ to be a father? Really. And if you had, I’m sure you’d be great at it, like everything. I just always thought you’d prefer, you know… Ibiza and jet setting, and…whatever, to like, domestication? And babies.”

Eliot cocked his head and looked at him curiously. “I can’t _get_ to Ibiza, or get on a jet. And anyway,” he waved a hand, “none of that was ever as cool as we made it out to be. We just knew how to spin great stories when we got back. But I’m here, and--” He returned his hand to his hip in defiance. “Have I not proven myself capable of domestication by now? After all these years?”

Quentin took him in, anew, as if he’d never seen him before. Eliot reserved making  himself up for tavern nights, as his supplies were limited, so tonight he looked as he always did, but suddenly Quentin was struck by the difference between this man and the one propped on the wall at Brakebills. The tattered espadrilles that Brakebills Eliot would have set fire to, the unpolished nails, the soft Fillorian earth-toned clothes, the two-day scruff, the shaggy curls, the unlined eyes that narrowed at him now. 

Eliot Waugh of the Mosaic, who drank only in moderation, who had a pipe in his pocket much of the time but partook of other recreations only on carefully chosen nights, who got up early, look long walks, and read far more than he’d ever admit to, who cooked this dinner Quentin could still smell all around them in the kitchen, and who would just as soon laugh his way through _The Princess Bride_ for their friends as dance the night away. _The way his hip has been twinging from the up-and-down of puzzle work,_ he thought, _I wonder if he_ could _club all night anymore. We should start doing some kind of homemade yoga, try to loosen that up._

It occurred to him that he’d been domesticated, too, even though that wasn’t as far of a leap for him as High King Eliot Waugh, the Spectacular.

“Yes,” Quentin answered seriously, “of course you have. Not that you ever had to prove anything? But yeah.” He stepped up to Eliot and patted his cheek with a grin. “You’re an indoor kitty now, aren’t you, pretty kitty?”

“You’re not too big to spank,” Eliot quipped slyly, a flush creeping up his neck, pushing Quentin playfully away. “And I think I’m cutting you off the wine for the night. Now get out there and use your charm on our guests.”

 

*

Eliot thought this might have been the end of it, but Movie Night just snowballed from there. Once Arielle had chatted at length with her customers about the storytelling, people began clamoring for an invitation to the Mosaic to hear more tales. They told _The Princess Bride_ a couple of more times, perfecting it as they went, and then moved on to _Dirty Dancing_ and _The Lion King._ They told _Lady and the Tramp_ to Tassie and Wicklet and their second litter-- and Wren, one of their first litter who still lived at home and watched Eliot’s every movement with wide eyes.

After a while this grew into something unworkable, even after they limited it to one night a week, with too many people to feed for dinner and not enough places for people to sit. 

“Mama,” Eliot began one night at the tavern, “I have an idea.”

“Oh sweet Ember, who now and how long to get sheets on the bed?” Mama laughed.

“Ha. Ha,” Eliot scoffed. “I have enough on my plate, thank you very much. And as you know full well, Rand was just here, so it’ll be weeks yet. I’ll make sure to remind you, so you can make it all pretty up there.”

“You’ll do it yourself or it won’t get done at all,” Mama rejoined. 

“Do you want to hear my idea, or not, Sassypants?”

“Go ahead.”

“My _idea_ is about these movies-- stories-- we’ve been telling. We’re turning people away. What if, on Fridays-- I mean, the night before week’s end-- we had Movie Night in the square? Then Ari could sell her little cakes, and you could sell drinks, and we could get some chairs from here--”

“Don’t get much business on those nights. You know, everyone’s tired from working all week, no one wants to go out.”

“Yes, _but_ , I think that has more to do with the tavern being, you know, the same thing every night. Give them something special-- and early-- and I bet they’d come out. Might even increase your business, if you’re selling concessions for it, and people might even _stay_ out and come here after, if we lured them out with something fun to do.”

“I’m listening…”

 

*

And so began Movie Night in the village. Sometimes Quentin and Eliot told the tales together, jumping in and correcting each other, or acting out whole scenes, and sometimes they took turns, especially if Quentin’s anxiety was up and he wasn’t ready to face a crowd. 

Sometimes other villagers told stories they knew, too, although the general consensus was that Cleve’s _True Stories of Fillory_ were a bit much-- the political conspiracies too fantastical for the adults to believe, and the monster stories too frightening for the kids. Quentin, for his part, enjoyed what he called _The F-Files_ immensely. This would eventually lead to him accompanying Eliot on his visits to the wagon down by the river, to hear Cleve tell them to an audience of two. Or one, as usually Eliot got so high he wasn’t listening.

It wasn’t long before Movie Night on the Square inspired the people to finally do something with the open patch of ground in the center of town. They met in the abandoned one-room town hall, which squatted, nearly invisible, next to Hund’s store, just three weeks after the first event. 

“Wait, this has been here the whole time?” Eliot marveled, as he entered the dusty room. There was a sort of podium-sized table shoved into a corner, and chairs scattered about. A long table was pushed against the wall. Quentin jumped in to help Gish pull it out into the room as Gana brushed the dust off of it and others moved chairs out of the way to make a space for it. 

Mama shrugged. “We haven’t had a Town Leader in years. Nothin’ ever happens here that we don’t just work out without a bunch of meetings, or know-it-alls. Till you Mosaic types showed up, that is.”

“Hmm,” was all Eliot said. 

Hund unfurled a large parchment onto the table, and they secured the ends with items from their pockets. Quentin stepped forward with his bowl of pastels, and waved Eliot over. “You’re up, Picasso.”

“Jeffrey Smart, thank you very much,” Eliot sniffed, then took the bowl and began to draw a layout of the town square. 

Plans were made for lantern poles, two at each corner where the roads met the square, and several more in the center, until Hund noted that they were making it difficult for carts to pass through for his deliveries. Quentin muttered to himself as he quickly worked out the scale and tore a corner off the parchment about the size a wagon should be and they began again.  

And so it went, with flower planters along the sides, and a tree planted off-center, leaving room on the tavern side for traffic and the Movie Night crowd. An argument with Cleve about advertisements on the Square ended with Hund agreeing to put a _small_ sign in his window directing people to the wagon, but no other signs but road signs at the branches of the five roads. The corners of the parchment were all torn away when they were finished, the strips lying about on its surface which was covered in crossed-out and redrawn ideas.

“Should we consider paving it?” Nalie wondered.

Eliot held up a hand. “I refuse to lay tiles on my time off from laying tiles. If you all want to do it, go ahead, but I’m out.”

“El, we could use magic on this one,” Quentin pointed out. “And we don’t have to follow a pattern like at home. We could probably get it done in a day, if we had the stone delivered.”

“Sorry, nope, _pomegranate._ I’m not laying a single brick. I’m not against having it there, but I’m telling you, I will not be responsible for my actions if you make me have any part of this.”

“Ooh, I heard the safeword,” Arielle grinned as she came in the door. “Better not push him, he means it, whatever it is.”

“See, my girl gets me,” Eliot purred, catching her around the waist and using his handkerchief on a splotch of flour on her face. Arielle caught Quentin’s eye and winked at him as he smiled warmly back.

“How’re the plans coming?” she asked.

“I think we’re done,” Mama said.

“We can’t fit anything else in here, that’s for sure,” Gish agreed. “But I’m with Nalie, I think we need paving. Wouldn’t it be nice not to have to walk through the mud after a rain?”

“I’d chip in,” Hund said. “Mama probably knows a stonecutter. Get a good price.”

“I do indeed,” Mama said. “Q, can you do the spell alone?”

Quentin was disappointed, but he nodded. “I mean, if I have to, I guess I will. Shame not to do it together, though, El.”

“Well, that’s just how it is sometimes. Can’t be helped,” Eliot said decisively. “And it also means I’m finished with my artistic contributions, and I’m going to see this lovely lady home.” 

Quentin gave a wave of goodbye in response to Arielle’s, but his attention was brought back quickly by the conversation at the table.

He wasn’t the Team Leader at the Mosaic, but Quentin did not lack experience in coordinating a group. It was all logistics, who would do what and when, what needed to be acquired and how-- not that different from coordinating his Brakebills friends on a quest, except these people were all sweet-natured and helpful, instead of snarky and constantly wandering off on their own. They also tended to look upon him as their leader, though he was one of the newest town members and had no history here at all. But he fielded their questions, and helped them reach solutions, and developed several to-do and to-buy lists. The only time he wished for Eliot was when he realized the map was too marked-up for them to remember what it all meant, and they really needed a clean copy.

Eliot gladly lent a hand with this, and even begrudgingly agreed to break his safeword oath to level the square, “as long as it’s before the stones arrive. I don’t even want to _see_ them.”

But on the day they did arrive, so did the swimming hole, so all plans were set aside to enjoy the picnics and fun of First Swim. And then the next day, everyone had to work their own jobs to make up for that lost time.

A week later, just as everyone had gotten used to walking and maneuvering carts around the tall stacks of flat stones, everyone came out once again to lay them down. 

Eliot, much to his chagrin, had to level the ground again, surrounded by the stacks, but got out as quickly as he could.

Quentin divided the square into quadrants, and the villagers piled up the stones all around the sides of the first designated area. He checked his notebook again, and then handed it to Gee for her to hold up so he could read the Slavic off of it as he did the tuts. The stones lifted from their stacks and fell gently into place, scraping against one another as they fit snugly together. The people stood frozen, mouths open, no one speaking, until the last stones scraped into place, and everyone clapped and cheered.

“Finally,” Quentin muttered. “I knew I had it right. All right, folks,” he called out to the crowd, “next one.” The people moved to gather the stones they’d need for the next quadrant. And so it went, until all the paving was in place.

There were holes in the pattern Quentin had created (for of course there had to be a pattern to it, he couldn’t break the habit, although this one was much less detailed than the ones he did at home) to fit lantern poles into, as well as the road signs, and indentations around the sides for the wooden planter boxes they would install, but that all took another week to get delivered, as they had no woodworker in the Village.

Quentin took the time to work his way around the Square and mend broken windows and posts and other dilapidations of the empty storefronts that lined it. The blacksmith and woodworker’s could wait, as they were farther down the southeast road and not visible from the Square, but the tailor’s, the cobbler’s, the leatherworker’s, and the little town hall were all given refreshed facades. Gana and Nalie and the twins worked on cleaning out the town hall to make it usable again, although no one could quite imagine what they would need it for, but as the dust inside had made everyone sneeze, it seemed like a prudent move for the future.

After weeks of preparation, and Movie Night suffering from many temporary locations around the square and in the tavern, the weekly event finally found its footing on the newly paved and decorated Square, and became a beloved, well-attended event. Eliot would help Mama set up the chairs from the tavern and light the lanterns with a tut, and soon after sunset everyone would gather, forming lines at Mama’s and the bakery, laughing and visiting with each other, encouraging any new storytellers with pats on the back, admonishing the kids and Cleve not to heckle so much, and settling in their seats for “showtime”. 

Not content with the simple storytelling, Eliot began guiding flower petals and fireflies into simple shapes that helped depict key plot points or objects behind the night’s storyteller. They became the rippling waters of _Finding Nemo,_ a three-dimensional Holy Grail for _Raiders of the Lost Ark,_ and even a tiny bicycle, flying in front of a moon made of fireflies, for _E.T._  

Eventually, Eliot worked out a spell that would allow the floating “pixels” to just follow the narration without him constantly guiding them. Unfortunately, this meant he ceased to be Quentin’s translator, and the “screen” often fell into an amusing chaos as he stuttered and backtracked. Over time he learned to tell a clearer story, but Arielle found herself missing the kaleidoscope of mess crashing and swirling behind him.

Some people formed small groups to rehearse their stories during the week, almost turning them into little plays. Team Queliot, who had begun this tradition, would not let themselves be outdone, and Eliot had roped Arielle into being in their group even though she didn’t know the movies.

“Quentin Makepeace Coldwater-Waugh--” Eliot began sternly as he came out of the house with a platter of dinner one evening. 

“It’s just _Coldwater,_ Waugh,” Quentin sighed. This was a new whimsy that Eliot had grabbed onto, to call him by both of their names, as if they were married. It always followed his full name, which Eliot only used when he was play-mad, but lately he seemed to find more excuses for _that_ whimsy, too. It did have a nice rhythm to it, and Eliot could easily fall in love with a line that rolls off the tongue, which Quentin supposed was why he said it so often. But it was an odd time for this joke to surface, he thought, after Eliot had spent so much time and effort to bring Quentin’s _girlfriend_ into the house.

“That’s what I said!” Eliot muttered, rolling his eyes and putting down the platter. “Why have you never told me our princess is a _Disney_ princess?” he continued, his hands on his hips.

“I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“She can _sing!”_

“Haven’t you been teaching her songs for ages?”

“She only ever wanted to learn _rap._ I never heard her sing until just now! In there! In our _kitchen._ This beautiful voice just--”

Arielle appeared with the water pitcher and mugs, looking not unlike [the St. Pauli girl](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._Pauli_Girl#/media/File:Stpaulisgirl.JPG), Quentin thought.  “Is he still carrying on about my voice? Ember’s balls, El, it’s not that special.” 

“Not that--” Eliot clutched at his heart. He turned to Quentin as he passed by and grabbed his shirt, pulling him close with wild eyes. “An _angel,_ Q, a fucking _angel_ just sang in our _kitchen!”_

“Eliot, get off, dick,” Quentin said as he waved him away. “Drama queen.”

“A discipline requiring years of study,” Eliot sniffed, and he grabbed Arielle’s hand before she could sit. “Please, please, Q, you have to hear this! Do the rhapsody spell, give us, um, oh just _[You Are My Sunshine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cGa3zFRqDn4)_ or something.”

Quentin had learned the spell from Margo, and used it on Eliot at the Mosaic when he couldn’t remember the words to some song that was stuck in his head.

He began twisting his hands and arms as sigils and lights flashed between them. When he brought his right hand up in crossed fingers, the two began to sing together, in perfect harmony.

_“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy, when skies are gray…”_

Arielle’s voice was clear and bright, _like bells on Christmas morning,_ Quentin thought dreamily, and Eliot’s-- well, it was hardly news that Eliot’s singing was the single best sound Quentin had ever heard but it blended so sweetly with Arielle’s that he was beginning to rethink the rankings.

_“You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you, please don’t take my sunshine away.”_

“Oh. My. God. We have to do the [ _Pocahontas_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KiuBw_kj1-U) [duet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KiuBw_kj1-U)!” Eliot squealed.  

“How did I-- I just knew all the words! I’ve never even _heard_ that before!” Arielle exclaimed in wonder. “And I thought I heard a… a mandolin, or something...” But the men were so used to the spell, as well as her amazement at things they were used to, that they tuned her out.

“Eliot,” Quentin frowned. “We aren’t doing _Pocahontas_ for Movie Night.”

“Why not? Oh shit, right, problematic. We could change them to like, Lorians, or something? Or maybe some lost tribe in the After Islands?” 

“That would only make it worse! Let’s just try to avoid subjugation. _Gone With The Wind_ is off the table, too.”

“Well, _fuck._ I had great plans for your Scarlet O’Hara, Q,” Eliot huffed as he sat down. “I already have the velvet curtains and everything.”

“I thought you were excited about _The Little Mermaid?_ ”

“I mean, we have a _Disney princess named Arielle_ on our team, Q. It would be a crime against nature _not_ to do it. I just didn’t know she could really _sing_ too! Sorry, sweetheart,” he said to Arielle, patting her leg, “it’s just the way you rap, I thought your singing might be a little croaky. Margo was the same.” He turned back to Quentin and whined, “Could we just do the _song,_ then? Like a movie short, before _Mermaid.”_

“Let’s see how rehearsals go,” Quentin said. “If it turns out too long already, we can’t add to it. Time limit is ninety minutes, remember.” Eliot had trouble directing himself while performing, and though he had never tried such a thing before, Quentin found himself enjoying the front-row seats to rehearsals immensely, and had moved seamlessly into the director’s chair, taking over leadership of the entire project for the Mosaic team. “In the meantime, I have to finish practicing my _Back to the Future II,_ I still have to cut ten minutes off it.”

“Cut fifteen and let us do our song first, so Rand can see it!”

“When does he get here?”

“Week’s End Day,” Eliot and Arielle both said in unison, and giggled together, and at each other.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he grinned.

Eliot, for his part, recut the song to exclude some of the more plot-specific elements and take up less time. This cut Pocahontas’ solo, however, so he tore up all his ideas and started again. 

“Ari’s going to start Smith’s solo, then I’ll finish it, then we’ll harmonize,” Eliot explained at their next rehearsal. 

“Write it down for me,” Quentin said, “and I’ll fix the spell. You might have to sing me through it. I hope it _does_ turn out shorter, I’ve still got five minutes to cut.”

He managed it, barely-- it was still touch and go, honestly, whether he’d lose his train of thought or go off on a tangent, but he thought he could make the cut-off. When the villagers were assembled on the Square for the next Movie Night showing, he announced the addition to the program.

“We’re starting tonight with just a song? It’s from a movie called _Pocahontas,_ about-- well, nevermind, but this song--”

“--Is just a love song, out of context,” Eliot chimed in. “Can we just do this?”

“Wait, there’s one more thing. I’m going to use a new spell,” he said to quiet gasps in the crowd. “It will make music all around us, just-- try not to freak out. And now, ladies and gentlemen, the Mosaic presents, _If I Never Knew You.”_

Quentin stepped back so Eliot and Arielle could arrange themselves under the tree in front of the crowd. Eliot gave a tut and a wave, and the fireflies rose to dance all around them, bathing the couple in a warm glow.

Quentin, looking much like an orchestra director, began the tuts for the rhapsody spell and soon the music began to fade in. As he expected, there were more gasps and murmurs in the crowd, but no one ran off screaming, and he counted that as a win. 

Eliot, meanwhile, had caught an arm around Arielle’s waist and pulled her close, her skirt swinging behind her, but looked away. Quentin thought he looked like an ice dancer waiting for the music to start. Then Arielle pulled his face towards her to look into his eyes, and spoke the words John said to Pocahontas. “Look at me. I’d rather die tomorrow, than live a hundred years without knowing you.” And then she began to sing, light and sweet.

_If I never knew you_

_If I never felt this love_

_I would have no inkling of_

_How precious life can be_

Eliot took over, his voice warm and strong. Quentin had set the spell with a simple choreography, Arielle being a bit of a klutz, and so Eliot raised their hands between them and gave her a simple turn under his arm.

_And if I never held you_

_I would never have a clue_

_How at last I'd find in you_

_The missing part of me_

As he pulled her back, he led her in front of him so he could put his arms around her waist from behind. He held her close and sang,

_In this world so full of fear_

_Full of rage and lies_

Arielle turned her shoulders in his arms to look up at him, and sang,

_I can see the truth so clear_

_In your eyes, so dry your eyes_

pretending to wipe away a tear from his cheek. He spun her away as if embarrassed, turned away from her with his left arm extended to where it held hers. She walked back to him, folding his arm at the elbow, as if trying to get through to him, as she sang,

_And I'm so grateful to you_

_I'd have lived my whole life through_

_Lost forever_

_If I never knew you_

Eliot dropped to one knee, looking up at her and still holding her hand. _Like a proper Prince Charming,_ Quentin thought. _Except for the wince when he bent at the hip._

Their voices began to swell as they sang two verses at the same time.

_If I never knew you_ | _There's no moment I'd regret_  
---|---  
_If I never knew this love_ | _Since the moment that we met_  
_I would have no inkling of_ | _If our time has gone too fast_  
_How precious life can be_ | _I've lived at last_  
  
The music continued to swell all around them as Eliot spoke John’s line, “No matter what happens to me, I’ll always be with you, forever.”

_And I’m so grateful to you_

_I'd have lived my whole life through_

_Empty as the sky--_

She sat on his knee and put her arms around his neck, singing,

_Never knowing why--_

And then together they harmonized, in a moment that would forever burn in Quentin’s memory, long after all of this was nothing _but_ a blurry memory, the most perfect music he’d ever heard in his life.

_Lost forever, if I never knew you…_

The music faded out and there was a moment of silence before the assembled crowd burst into applause. Arielle gave a squeal of delight and hugged Eliot tight around the neck, kicking her feet giddily and nearly throwing them completely off-balance. Eliot was grinning like a fool and hugging her tight around the waist, struggling to keep them upright.

“C’mon now, time for glory,” he nudged her, and they rose and bowed to the crowd, who was still cheering and applauding.

Quentin stood and hugged Arielle, and then Eliot, ducking his head and clearing his throat. “Oh man, I hope I can talk now. You guys broke me,” he said with a grin.

“And that,” Eliot said, turning to Arielle, “is why they call it _slaying._ And you _slayed,_ girl,” he said,  kissing her on the head. Then he straightened up to look over them and scan the chattering crowd. He waved at Rand who was seated in the third row next to an empty chair with his outer robe tossed over the back. “Ah, I see a priest who needs my autograph. Quentin, break a leg, my public awaits.” 

Quentin was always amazed at how Eliot could turn it on and off, sing like that and just walk away. As he made his way to the playing area, he watched his friend move into the seat next to Rand, slumping slightly to the side to lay his head on the priest's shoulder. 

“I don’t think magic has ever been so pretty,” Rand sighed into his curls with a kiss, and Eliot wriggled a bit in delight at the praise. 

Quentin agreed, and gave silent thanks to whatever god might be listening for Rand, and for how kind he'd been to Eliot. _The natural order is restored,_ he thought, but shook it off to focus on his story.

As he took his place, Arielle moved into his seat in the front row, right in front of him for support. He gave a tut and the fireflies drifted back down to their footlights position, glowing up at him. He got everyone’s attention, announced his film, and began to tell the story of _Back To the Future II._

He was doing better than he had practicing over the tiles. He had a good flow going on the plot, and he remembered to mention some small things so he wouldn’t have to back up later. His movie screen was playing along in creating backdrops, for once, as he’d also remembered to practice with the spell, which always helped.

No one noticed the plump black rabbit hopping its way from the woods towards the group in the square.

“And so Marty jumps down into the stairwell behind Young Biff,” Quentin was saying, as the scene built behind him, “and he hears the noise, but shrugs it off, and Marty is just reaching up behind him to grab the Sports Almanac when—“

The rabbit came between Quentin and the crowd, stopping right in front of Arielle, and said—

 

“Pregnant.”

 

 

 

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This set of four chapters are named after films:  
> That's Entertainment (1974)  
> The Accidental Tourist (1988)  
> Tangled (2010)  
> Call Me By My Name (2017)
> 
> Note from the future! Movie Night has been held over an extra week, so your fifth film is Back to the Future (1985).
> 
> I can't wait to hear your comments so I hope you will write one! Even just an emoji heart or smile (or frowny face, if that's how you really feel!) makes my day and lets me know what content you like. So let me see some smiles! 
> 
> Your "movies" will be showing each Monday, so leave that comment and I'll see you back here next week!
> 
> <3 <3 <3  
> Trillian


	27. The Accidental Tourist (1988)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bunny said, "Pregnant."

“Pregnant,” the rabbit said again, this time loud enough that Rand could hear it from his third-row seat.

A hush fell over the crowd, followed by murmurs from further back of “What happened?” and “Why did he stop?” and “What did it say?” and “Oh. OH…”

Quentin had frozen in mid-sentence. Arielle just stared at the rabbit like it had come from outer space. Eliot sat straight up in his chair, leaving Rand’s hand to fall down his back.

Mama was the first to move. She stood and addressed the crowd. “Alright, everybody, listen up. Movie Night is done for tonight. I know it’s probably pointless but I’m gonna ask you all right now to hold back on the gossip. This here is private, and should stay private until we hear from the Mosaic. I’ll need some volunteers to break this down and get stuff inside. Everyone’s welcome back to the tavern, but I mean it-- y’all will have to find something else to talk about, d’ya hear me? Try to guess how the movie ends or somethin’.”

Murmurs of agreement rustled through the crowd as they rose and began to gather their belongings and chairs. Mama’s admonition had a limited effect-- they were still gossiping, but in quiet murmurs, and no one approached anyone from the Mosaic, though everyone watched them from the corners of their eyes.

Mama stepped up between Arielle and Quentin. She reached for both of their hands, and then brought them together. “You two take a walk. Home, if you want, or wherever, but this is between you, now.”

Arielle nodded and Quentin, looking dazed, squeezed her hand. “North road?” she said to him, and he shrugged. They walked off into the night.

Eliot rose but Rand found his hand and tugged at it. “She’s right, this is between them, it’s not our business.”

“Rand, you have no idea. This is _absolutely_ my business,” Eliot growled.

“Okay, I get it, but-- you didn’t make this baby. They did. Let them sort it out first.”

“They can have a headstart but I am _definitely_ talking to Quentin. Tonight,” Eliot fumed.

“Okay, then, let’s help Mama first,” Rand said calmly.

Eliot did the tuts to end the movie screen spell, but his movements were aggressive. He waved the flower petals angrily up into the wind, leaving the dazed fireflies to spread out across the Square and wander lazily to the woods on their own. He grabbed a chair and began to drag it back to the tavern.

“Eliot,” Rand said, putting a hand on the man’s arm, light at first, then stronger when Eliot didn’t respond. “Stop. _Stop._ Tell me why you’re so angry right now.”

Eliot dropped the chair, a little too hard. “I’m not-- look, I can’t. Not because I don’t want to, but because it’s all tied up in this quest shit.”

“All right, I get that,” Rand said cautiously. “Who are you mad at, exactly?”

“Quentin, obviously. Fucking after school special bullshit,” he muttered as he moved to pick up the chair again. 

“Right, but…” Rand caught Eliot with both of his hands on Eliot’s biceps, and applied pressure until Eliot stopped trying to move and looked at him. “Usually when people are this mad, they’re really mad at themselves. What is going on with you?”

“I _forgot_ something, okay?” Eliot said, too loud, and it drew looks from villagers that were collecting chairs around them. “I forgot that my life is utter shit and that I never get to keep anything I love. And I forgot to not fall in love with _her.”_

“Oh,” Rand said, taking his hands off of Eliot’s arms.

“Not like that, it’s not like that with us. It’s just-- we all have a part to play, and I just realized, for sure, what Quentin’s role is, and I just remembered what mine is. The cheese stands alone.” He fidgeted, full of energy. “I can’t stay here, I have to talk to him. And anyway, I left my bag there so we have to. Let everyone else deal with this shit and let’s _go.”_

“All right,” Rand sighed. There wasn’t any point in arguing anymore. They headed off towards the Mosaic, Eliot striding ahead with purpose, Rand struggling to keep up.

 

*

Arielle and Quentin walked hand-in-hand up the north road. Up aways was the turnoff to the Rock, her spot with Eliot, and she wished she was walking there. But it was a pinkie-swear with Eliot not to tell Quentin where it was. 

Eliot. _Shiny, shiny Eliot._ She wished he was here, but he was with Rand tonight and anyway, she should be with Quentin. Just Quentin. The father of her baby.

Quentin was rambling about something, but she couldn’t follow it and honestly didn’t care. Her thoughts were swirling. It was unusual for her to not be able to name a feeling, to own what she felt and to stand on it, right or wrong, as solid ground beneath her feet. Tonight the ground was sliding, and she couldn’t take hold of a thought that would right it, especially with Quentin jabbering on beside her. 

“--not like _you_ can even follow me, so I may as well--”

_What is this feeling? Empty? But no, not that, not empty, full. Full of baby._

“-- I just need to figure out where to access the books--”

_Baby. Happy about that, sure. Little hands, little face. Good._

“--I mean, _we_ keep getting sent through time, so--”

_Also, birth. Pain. Not so good. Scared about that._

“-- be the key that stops you? From jumping forward a hundred years? Maybe, but--”

_Scared. Eliot. Empty. Not empty, off-balance. Incomplete._

“--the door, if there’s a time limit like when we came here--”

_Impossible to think when Quentin-- Quentin. Focus on Quentin._

She stopped, and pulled on his arm to pull him out of his rant.

“Hey,” she said. 

“Oh- um, hey? So, I should say, I’m sorry, I’m _really_ sorry I fucked up, with the--.”

“We both did.”

“No, I--”

“Now, Q, do i have to explain how babies are made? If it was a fuckup, it was both of us. Only I don’t think we _did_ fuck it up," she said.

“No? That’s-- that’s good. I mean, that’s great!” He grinned at her. “Great. I have a lot of work to do, but we should talk? About all that--”

“Yeah, so, boo? Here’s the thing. I am feeling really-- mixed up right now? I can’t-- I’m having trouble thinking, and I-- if I said everything to you that I’m thinking right now, you might-- take it wrong, not because it’s not nice-- but I mean, I just don’t know what I mean, yet? I need to be by myself for a bit. And you, I’m not sure what’s going on but I can tell when you’re fired up about something to do with magic and it sounds urgent, so-- I am just going to say goodnight here, and have myself a walk and a think, and then spend the night at the bakery so I can start early tomorrow. I’ll meet you back at home for Rand’s lunch at two and we can talk then.” _And Eliot,_ she thought, but shook it off. “Is that okay?”

“Sure, sweetheart, of course, whatever you need, you know you’ve got it,” he said distractedly. “I _do_ have something, not as important as this-- I mean it _is_ this, in a way, but-- I do need to get to work, as long as-- as long as you’re really okay?”

“I am. Just-- need to catch up,” she sighed.

“Me too, me too. Okay, so, lunch tomorrow?” He paused and looked at her. “Are you sure this is okay? It feels like it should be weird, to split up? I keep thinking we should be doing one of those scenes from the movies where we lay in bed and pick out baby names.”

“Isn’t that usually before an explosion or something, you said? _Something to flash back to when it all goes to shit?_ ”

Quentin laughed. “Well, yeah, I guess we don’t want to tempt fate. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure, boo,” she said, leaning into him and kissing him on the cheek. “I love you, everything is fine, I just need to get my head on straight and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” Quentin said, in faux grandeur, completing her rhyme.

“I know that one! That’s from the kids who end up dead! Quick, what wards off the evil eye?” she laughed, stepping back and pointing at him. “Jinx! Jinx!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop. Sugar, please, and then I’ll say goodnight,” he said, and she leaned in again and kissed him, one of their forever kisses, and not the first time on a dark country road on a sweltering summer night. There had been many, and there would be many more.   

But tonight, there was much to think about, for each of them, and he let her go, their hands trailing as they pulled apart and she began to walk away. “Love you!” he called after her.

“Love you back!” she called out over her shoulder, giving a wave, as the darkness swallowed her up.

 

*

Quentin took the path that ran through the woods from the north road across to the River Road, which passed just by the Mosaic. _I can’t believe I forgot to work on this, fucking idiot,_ he chastised himself. _And now she’s carrying our baby-- our baby!_ he interrupted himself. _That’s just beyond, beyond everything. But I never solved it, and she_ has _to come with us, and the baby-- our baby!_ He wavered between excitement and panic, a live wire. _I need books, I’ll need Rand to get me books, he’s got to know someone, somewhere, who can do magic or has access to spells._ He had some theories and ideas he’d jotted down in a new notebook just for that, but he hadn’t gotten far. _Maybe the horomancy spell idea, send her forward?_

The Mosaics had worn another path off of the main one, which led directly into the yard and came out near the fire pit. As he made his way out of the woods and headed for the side door of the house, he caught a glimpse of Rand through the clothes on the line, coming around from the front. So Eliot was home. _Thank god. He can help. I’ll grab the notebook and we can--_

But as he came in the side door he felt a hand grip tight to his bicep, and before he could even register the man in the shadows of the hallway, he was yanked into Eliot’s bedroom. The door slammed behind them, completing the silencing wards and cutting them off from the world.  

“Good fucking _job,_ Q,” Eliot snarled, pushing him down onto the bed. “You finally made your unknowns known! Couldn’t just leave well enough the fuck alone. Fucking passive-aggressive--”

“El, whoa, hold on-- why are _you_ mad?” Quentin had been so focused on himself and Arielle and the baby and the notebook that he hadn’t given Eliot a second thought. Apparently his impending fatherhood was drama for Eliot. _Figures._

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me right now?” Eliot said with widening eyes. “You made a _baby,_ Q, another anchor in this place _we are supposed to leave any day!_ How could you be so _irresponsible?!_ Unless this was your plan all along."He folded his arms across his chest.

Quentin’s cheeks flushed red, and he felt caught out, exposed, though that didn’t make any sense. _“What?_ I mean _yes,_ I fucked up the spell, I should have been more careful, but it was a _mistake,_ the spell just didn’t work, or didn’t take, and I didn’t notice--” His mind was racing over a supercut of his fingers twisting the contraceptive tut against her creamy skin in candlelight, in daylight, in moonlight. Somehow, one of them had been off, even the slightest misalignment would have made it fail. He knew rationally that statistics were against them-- of course he was bound to fuck it up eventually-- but it’s not like he _planned_ it. He wasn’t trying to _change_ things, he wouldn’t risk fucking up this beautiful bubble of a dream that had come up around him-- Arielle, his love, and Eliot, his friend, and all together in this sweet little house in this sweet little village. He definitely didn’t do this on _purpose._ Eliot was talking crazy, being a drama queen, as usual. 

Eliot had backed up against the door and covered his face in his hands with a slap that sounded like it hurt. He rubbed furiously at his face, growling, and shoved his hands up into his curls.

Quentin pressed on. “Everything is fine. Ari has gone to have a think, and sleep at the bakery, and that means we can work on-- _What?!_ What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” He didn’t have time for some bullshit drama he couldn’t follow, when there were so much more important things at hand.

“You don’t--” Eliot looked up at him, stunned. _“Jesus..._ You’re so fucking smart and _so colossally fucking stupid_ all at the same time--”

“For _fuck’s sake,_ Eliot, I’m not the first one of us to have a child in Fillory.” Quentin snapped back at him. “And yours wasn’t even a _mistake,_ because you don’t _make_ mistakes like the rest of us, do you, _High King Eliot Fucking Waugh?_ You just _announced_ your intention at the dinner table like a _pig,_ as I recall. So get down off your fucking high horse.” 

“I did what I _had_ to do!” Eliot snapped back at him. “I married her because I _had_ to! For the fucking knife, for you, for _everyone._ And no, that night at the wedding, I didn’t think about it first, what it _meant._ Because it was all part of this crazy nightmare and I thought, like the asshole that I am, that I’d wake up from it. Or die in it, I honestly didn’t give a shit at the time. You think I don’t make _mistakes?_ Everything I’ve _done_ has been a mistake, you know that better than anyone!” 

This came at Quentin like a knife but he deflected it. Now was not the time to re-litigate who did what to whom. He couldn’t think about it now.

And Eliot seemed to feel the same, because he kept on, lifting himself off of the door and taking a step to tower over Quentin. “But this-- Q-- we really _are_ going to wake up from this! We _know_ this is going to end, whether we want it to or not!”

“It doesn’t have to, Eliot! I mean, yes, _this,”_ Quentin waved a hand, “this purgatory, as you always call it, being stuck here with me--”

“Not you-- that’s not--” Eliot began, stomping a foot.

“Let me _finish,_ Eliot!” Quentin yelled, standing to meet him face to face. He’d had enough, this was over. He’d made a _mistake,_ and there was a _fix,_ if Eliot would just _listen._ _"Y_ _es,_ this will end, but our lives with Ari and now the baby-- they don’t have to! We can still find a way, if you’d just let me get to my notebook--”

 _“No!_ Quentin! _God!”_ Eliot stomped his foot again, jamming his hands back into his hair, his face flushing red. “That’s not what this _is! Don’t you get it?!_ Now we _know_ why you stay and I go back alone, without you, without her. You want to talk about _mistakes?_ _My_ mistake was in going along with your stupid dream that we would all just ride off into the sunset together! And letting myself get--” He shook his head furiously. “Just admit it, Quentin, you _want_ to stay, you’ve wanted to stay since the night we found out about Ari. This is your perfect little slice of heaven, peace and love in Fillory, just like you said, and you made _sure_ you had to stay. _That’s what this is.”_  

“No-- that’s not--” Quentin sputtered, though he felt like a spotlight had just shown on him. “I would never just-- give up on the quest-- that’s not-- It doesn’t have to be like that! We already decided this! We are going to take them with us! It’ll be weird, I know, coming back to our friends, our lives, as parents--”

“Not _weird,_ Quentin! Fucking _dangerous,”_ Eliot hissed, moving away to begin pacing on the side of the room. “Let’s say we _do_ find a way. Do you know what the fairies will do if I come back with you, and her, and a _baby?_ They fucking _love_ babies! Do you think they’ll let us _keep_ her? At _best_ they will bring her back as someone you don’t know _at all,_ someone you didn’t get to raise, who fucking _hates_ you, and at worst _they will eat her._ Or just keep her, hold her hostage, cut her apart piece by piece and make fucking jewelry out of the bits. Or Ari, god, her tongue would be gone in an hour. And they won’t just do it for fun-- though god knows they’d enjoy it-- I heard what you said, Q, that _we_ were parents like this was some sort of polyamory special on Showtime-- if you give them any reason to think that I’m one of the _parents_ of this child, to realize how much I  _care_ about you-- they’ll use you to hang over my head, make me _do_ things for them, things that will tear me apart, and tear Fillory apart, and I would _do_ them, to protect you, all of you, I would do _anything._ You don’t _know,_ you weren’t there, they took Margo’s _eye_ , Fen has fucking _wooden toes_ now, and that was only after they _tortured her_ and stole our baby and made her go crazy--”

Quentin froze in shock. He knew these facts, of course, but he’d never heard it all strung together like this, along with the fear and rage in Eliot’s voice. His knees felt weak, and his stomach twisted. He sank down on the bed again. “Eliot, god, I’m--”

“Sorry? Yeah. We are _all_ fucking sorry!” Eliot raved. “But it’s why we’re _here,_ the whole quest for the Seven Keys, I know _you’re_ trying to get magic back so your world can be all sparkly and to make up for killing Ember, but for  _me,_ the reason I _got_ this quest, was to _get the goddamn fairies off my fucking back_ so they will stop hurting everyone! And if I come back with you and a _family--_ _god,_ Quentin, your head will be on a pike _so fast._ And Ari and the baby gone, _poof,_ just like that. Not to mention that _you’re_ a King of Fillory too, not that you ever gave a shit, but she might just decide to move on to _you_ as her personal dildo--”

“But we could hide! I mean, we weren’t even _in_ Fillory when we left, and didn’t know how to get back. We can stay in New York, they can’t--” 

“They know how to get to _Earth,_ Q! I don’t know why they never tried to hunt down you and Alice, maybe they thought she was really dead, and you’d certainly taken yourself off the board--”

“Jesus, Eliot, just because Cleve has some crazy story about a lost tribe of Earth fairies doesn’t make it--” 

“Quentin, we can’t take that _chance!_ And we’re in Fillory _now,_ what if we only move in _time_ and just find ourselves standing in a rotting Mosaic like the one we found? Then you’d be a King of Fillory With A Baby in the middle of the woods with all her spies, a bigger target than you ever were, and Quentin, _god--_ by now--” he moved to him and knelt at his knees. Quentin opened them instinctively to let him lean in. Eliot put his hands on his waist and held him firmly as he looked up at him, his pupils blown wide with emotion and the light of the single candle, the tears in his eyes threatening to tip over. “As soon as we got there, they would _know,_ you can’t _hide_ from them, and they would _have_ to know who you are to me, all of you-- at _best_ you’re the bait,” he choked on a sob, and the fear and love in his eyes made Quentin’s well up. “Baby, _please--_ it’s too _dangerous!_ For you, for the baby, for Ari if she somehow gets out of here-- even if it _worked,_ Quentin, _we can’t._ You can’t. This is the _perfect_ safehouse, please, you have to stay with her, _protect her,_ and the baby, please, _please_ understand that! Just let me go and do it for you. And I know you _want_ to, I see how this place is for you, how peaceful you are, how happy--”

 _No, No!_ Quentin thought frantically, _not this, not ever this, he doesn’t understand._ “El,” he said softly, throat clenched, taking Eliot’s face in his hands. “I’d be stuck in the past. We’d never see each other again, that would really be it, _forever-_ forever. We’ve thought that before, but this is-- and after all this--” Tears began to spill down his cheeks. “I don’t know if I can do that, I don’t know how-- you’re asking me to--” 

“I’m asking you to make a _choice,”_ Eliot said, his hazel eyes boring into him, serious and sad and soft and steel, seeing right through him.

_A choice._

_Which I never made._

_Because I felt guilty._

_Because this is what I really wanted._

“And what about you?” Quentin said, breaking away from Eliot’s gaze to wipe his eyes on his sleeve, and shoving his thoughts away. “You’d go back alone to face all of that, the fairies and the quest and everything, when I should be there, to help, to face everything _together,_ like we’re _supposed_ to. I told you, I won’t let you do anything bad to yourself.” 

“And I told _you,_ I’d do it if you needed it. And I won’t be alone, I’ll have Margo, our friends. I’m sorry, baby,” Eliot said softly, brushing Quentin’s hair back from his face, “I’m _so_ sorry you don’t get to be there for the win. But we’ll do it, for you. Look at me,” he said, raising Quentin’s chin till their eyes met. “I’ll shout your name when we beat them, I swear. I’ll commission ballads in your honor,” he added grandly, which made Quentin smile through his tears. “But Q, the only thing that matters now is Ari’s baby, _your_ baby. And this is where she’s safe. Where you’re safe. I’ll be fine. Better now even, now that I know why it happens. The suspense is over. It _is_ all for the best, after all.” His voice had been steadying as he talked, but he choked on that.

“I didn’t do this on purpose, El,” Quentin sniffed. 

“I know, baby, I’m sorry,” Eliot said soothingly, and Quentin knew it was because he’d give him anything, even to keep his own lies if he wanted to. “But it’s okay, really.” There was a dark ache under his kind words, as he wiped Quentin’s tears from his face with his knuckles and petted his hair. “it’s okay to want this. It’s okay to want to get off the crazy train, find something beautiful for yourself--"

“God, I--” Quentin said, and everything broke inside him. He rushed forward and pressed his lips into Eliot’s. It was a kiss full of gratitude, of tenderness, of everything that they were to each other but words could never say-- but after one long moment Eliot broke it off, swinging up to his feet, his eyes squeezed shut, the back of his wrist pressed to his mouth.

“Oh! That’s um,” Quentin said, as he swung quickly to the side, avoiding Eliot’s face. “That’s clearly not appropriate. I’m sorry, it was just--”

“Habit,” Eliot said with a rasp. “I know. From all the kneeling,” he tried to smirk, but his voice was thick. He rubbed at his eyes. “And we’re all exhausted. You need to be with Ari. Is she-- is she okay?”

“I think so,” Quentin said, still unable to look at him. “I was kinda-- caught up in my own head, but so was she.”

“Are you in the doghouse?” 

“No, I mean, I don’t think so? There was, you know, laughing and kissing and stuff? She said just needs to think,” Quentin said, wiping his face on his sleeve again, a useless endeavor since it was now as wet as his face.

“Don’t we all,” Eliot muttered. “Well, trust Ari to know what she needs at any given moment. It’s late, but the moon is full...” He frowned at the black window, then shook it off. “And nothing ever happens in these woods, it’s fine. The bears keep watch regardless, and we’re only a rabbit away.” He looked back to Quentin, and his posture melted a bit. “Quentin, just... just sleep on it, okay? Here if you want.” He picked up a satchel that had been left by the door. “I’m staying with Rand, so…”

“Oh. Right. Of course. I don’t think I’ll need to but, yeah, thanks,” Quentin mumbled.  

Eliot waved open the door and caught it in his hand. He stopped and leaned on it for a moment, “Q, it’s all for the best,” he said softly. “Remember, we protected it. Even tonight. All of it. _Que sera, sera._ You just have to decide what comes next.” He slipped out of the door, waving it shut behind him. Quentin, now alone in the silence, couldn’t hear his heavy steps as he left the house.

Now he knew what he’d been lying about, and why. Next was deciding what to do about it.

It was a long night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know I love to hear from you, so I hope you will comment! See you next Monday for _Tangled (2010)!_
> 
> <3  
> Trillian
> 
> (And yes, the movie title for next week has changed. Things got more... you know.)
> 
> ps Eliot's speech owes something to [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Wg-ey0u9I0&t=56s) from The West Wing in which the President explains to his daughter that if she were kidnapped, "the country wouldn't have a Commander-in-Chief anymore, it has a father who is out of his mind because his daughter is in a shack in Uganda with a gun to her head!" Worth the watch.  
> 


	28. Tangled (2010)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crop patterns, tea mugs, sausages, babies. 
> 
> Everything comes full circle.

Rand was sitting on Biddy’s cushioned bench, reading by lantern light, while he waited for Eliot. He hadn’t read _The Book of Umber_ since seminary, being a priest of Ember by profession, and he found the formal structure so odd in comparison. But it was linear, and soothing, and the interesting ideas in it kept him from worrying so much about his friends inside the house. He had been reading and writing tiny notes in the margins with a small piece of lead for some time, when Eliot came out of the front door.

He held out a hand to Rand. “Time to go.”

“Is everything okay?” Rand said, quickly putting his book and pencil in his satchel, and rising to accept his hand. They began to walk back to the road. 

Eliot’s eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and he looked distracted.  “For now, I guess,” he shrugged. He shifted the bag he held by the handle in crooked fingers as it hung over his shoulder. 

“Did you see Arielle?” Rand asked.

“She wasn’t there. Quentin said she was out, thinking.”

“Oh,” Rand said. _That sounds a tad ominous,_ he thought. “Do you want to go find her?”

“Ari is-- she’s like a blast of wind. You don’t find her, she finds you, and she hasn't found me, so it sounds like she needs to be alone. I don’t blame her, we’re all having a day.” Eliot shifted the bag on his shoulder again.

Rand might have argued with this, given how much healing clearly needed to happen between these three, but it was familiar to him. If he were alone he’d be waiting to get a rabbit from Arielle, or a note delivered. Sometimes being there for people meant waiting to be called upon.

Even when you were with them. 

They walked in silence down the dark, quiet River Road into the village. 

“It’s our quest, like I said before,” Eliot began cautiously. “Tonight, everything got complicated.”

“Actually complicated, or Mama-would-say-you’re-being-an-idiot complicated?” Rand asked.

“Actually. Or maybe… I don’t know. I really don’t know.” He sighed. “I guess the answers are simple, but it’s complicated to accept… I don’t know. Ugh,” he growled, squeezing his eyes shut.

“But how do _you_ feel? What’s going on up here?” Rand said, reaching over to pull Eliot’s curls back from his face. They were shorter now and wouldn’t stay behind his ear.

“Oh, Rand,” Eliot sighed, and then suddenly giggled. “Oh shit, I sound like [ Laura Petrie ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v_t6GSfInrQ).” He waved his hand. “Nevermind. I’m glad you’re here. I need to get out of all this. Let’s get drunk. Horribly, stupidly, embarrassingly drunk. Do things we’ll regret in the morning.”

“There isn’t actually that much to do here,” Rand pointed out. “Short of something _actually_ serious, I can’t really think of anything we’d regret. Except maybe going into a tavern full of people who are all pretty curious about _you_ right about now.”

“Hmmpf,” Eliot grunted in agreement. 

“You grew up in a town like this. What did you do when you were young and stupid?” 

“Get a fake ID and drive an hour and twenty-three minutes to the nearest gay bar.” He may have been describing fun, but he sounded resentful as he said it. 

“Hmm. But I really can’t take you back with me to Town?” Rand asked, rubbing his thumb over Eliot’s hand.

Eliot squeezed his hand in response. “I can’t leave, things are… this is serious. Decisions need to be made. I need to stay. And anyway, no, it’s part of the deal, you know, quest rules and all that. I don’t know, I don’t see how a trip to Town would hurt but apparently we can’t. Or don’t.” He sighed again. “It’s becoming increasingly clear that the person who is fucking with my life the most is _me,_ and I haven’t done it yet, and I apparently can’t stop it.”

“Hmm?” Rand said, because he didn’t know what else to say to that.

“People think time is linear,” Eliot intoned in a strange accent. “But it’s actually a big ball of wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey... stuff.”

Rand snorted a laugh. “That’s cute. I don’t understand _most_ of what you’re saying but that-- that’s cute.”

“You should have seen the man who said it. I binged his arc on that show with one hand on my cock the whole time. So, so pretty,” Eliot sighed rapturously.

Rand, as usual, ignored what he couldn’t follow and picked up on what he could. “Oh, c’mon now, prettier than you? Impossible.”

Eliot squeezed his hand. “Prettier than all of us, Rand. Prettier than the gods should ever allow. But I like your style, keep talking.”

“I would but… we’re here.” They had reached the square, now empty of chairs with only the roadside lanterns lit. Noise and laughter and the glow of the tavern spilled across the east side. They stopped. “How do you want to do this?” Rand asked cautiously.

Eliot chewed his lip and wobbled the heel of his boot on the stones. “Would you mind going in and telling Mama that we need some liquor, and that we’re going for a walk? We can come back when she closes up. C’mon, you can go in the back door,” he added, leading them around the darkened west side of the tavern. 

Eliot and Rand did do some things that night they regretted, including trying unsuccessfully to make several crop circles with a large tree branch, and chasing sheep around a pen and waking up a shepherd Eliot only barely knew in passing, hopping the fence to run drunkenly back into the fields. Because sometimes pretending you’re young and stupid again really helps clear the mind, Rand firmly believed.

 

*

When Eliot woke the next morning, his head was caving in and his body was sore. Some of that was in a very pleasant morning-after sort of way, but his arms and shoulders ached miserably. _Crop circles, Jesus Christ on a pogo stick._

The space next to him on the bed in Mama’s Room for Wayward Boys was empty, and there was a note in Rand’s neat handwriting on the bedside table. He reached over and squinted at it.

_Hey Lollipop,_

_I’m sorry I’m not here now but I got called away, a parishioner needs me. I don’t know how long it will take. Don’t wait for me to eat breakfast, okay? You’re getting thinner, I swear._

_EAT SOMETHING. Preferably greasy. You’ll feel better. I hear Mama downstairs, I’m sure she’s way ahead of me on this._

_Though I sort of hope your headache is as bad as mine. You’re a bad influence on me._

_\-- Rand_

 

Eliot smiled and rose, making his way tenderly to the washbasin to clean up and shave.

 

*

 

Quentin was puttering around the Mosaic yard, tidying up and taking care of some minor chores in preparation for hosting lunch, when Rand surprised him. He had sent a paper airplane to the priest not a half hour before, asking Rand to make some time for him before their lunch that afternoon, but he didn’t mean for his friend to leave what was surely a rather comfortable bed, with Eliot in it. But he was relieved to see him, as being alone at the Mosaic was unnerving. And he was relieved to see Rand was alone. He wasn’t ready for Eliot yet.

“Hey,” he said to the priest as he walked up. “You didn’t have to come right away, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I couldn’t sleep anyway,” Rand shrugged, then hitched the satchel on his shoulder.

“The snoring?”

“It gets quite… orchestral,” Rand admitted. 

Quentin gave a quick laugh, which made his head pound. Eliot’s snoring was the real reason behind their bedroom silencing wards in their bedrooms, though Quentin had insisted he and Arielle needed privacy.

“Brought tea,” Rand said, holding up a jug. “Wanna take a walk?”

“Sure. Feeling pretty wrecked today, but maybe stretching my legs would help,” Quentin said. He joined Rand and they turned right out of the yard and down the River Road toward New House. It was Quentin’s favorite route, down the hill, encased in trees on either side and a canopy of branches above, and at the bottom opening up to sparkling water, where the road and the river met and continued side-by-side like two old friends. He liked to go there and sit at the rocky riverbend, sometimes fishing, sometimes reading, sometimes yelling out his frustrations to no one but the bears, who ignored him to let him keep his privacy, he was pretty sure.

“How is Arielle?” Rand asked.

“Okay? I think. She stayed up at the bakery last night, she’ll be back for our lunch at two. We left things on good terms, I guess? But we still haven’t really talked. I don’t know, she didn’t send a rabbit and the bears didn’t report anything so I’m sure she’s safe, but…”

“The bears here do seem to have quite an attachment to this town,” Rand said. “I’ve never known them to patrol like they do here, it’s strange. Anyway, Ari has a good head on her shoulders, and she loves you. But… I hope you don’t mind my saying, you mentioned you feel wrecked, are you okay?” Rand asked, fishing two mugs out of his satchel. He handed one to Quentin.

“I didn’t sleep much,” Quentin shrugged, as held it steady for Rand to fill from the jug. “I probably shouldn’t have brought out Eliot’s flask,” he added sheepishly. When he was sure Eliot was gone last night, he had fished it out from the bottom drawer of his dresser, where it lay hidden behind the remnants of the black tee-shirt and denim jeans he’d first arrived in.

Rand raised an eyebrow at him.

“It’s enchanted to never empty,” Quentin explained. “I took it from him the first two weeks we were here. It’s easy to keep sucking on it, you know, without realizing how much you’ve had. I thought he was hitting it too hard, too often? So I hid it. Please don’t tell him. His drinking dropped considerably after he started having to portion out a week’s worth of wine.”

“What’s said to the priest stays with the priest, to paraphrase Eliot,” Rand said, giving an Eliot-wave of his hand. “Why didn’t he make another one?”

“I’m not sure. To be honest, I think he’s still mourning its loss, he whines about it constantly,” Quentin said. “Anyway, I was right the first time, it’s easy to drink too much from that thing, so I feel like shit. You don’t look so great, yourself. No offense.”

“None taken. We didn’t sleep much either, opted for getting drunk instead. _Wine is a mocker, strong drink is a brawler, and whoever is led astray by it is not wise,_ Umber says, and he’s not wrong. Though I rather think that was just a dig at his brother.” He had finished pouring his own tea and slapped the cork into the jug, dropping it into his satchel as they began walking again.

“Sounds like him. Bit of a pretentious prick.” Quentin frowned. “Is Eliot--”

“He’s fine. He just needed to blow off some steam, so we drank a bit and got a little wild. Mostly involving making patterns in the wheat fields, I forget what he called it, circle somethings? Anyway, my arms are killing me.”

“Eliot had you make crop circles. In Fillory,” Quentin said in wonder. “And he didn’t just use magic?”

“Apparently I required the authentic experience. We used a branch.”

“The authentic experience of faking a thing. That man just--” Quentin chuckled, and shook his head.

“I know, he’s a handful. I can see why you moved on to a nice _quiet_ girl like Arielle,” Rand smirked.

“I didn’t-- I mean, that just happened, later.” 

“Happened?”  

“I mean, that’s the thing, right? I don’t _make_ choices, and then things just happen, like last night, and I’m-- I always feel like I’m running to catch up,” the younger man said.

“Just gotta warn you, children make that feeling worse, not better,” Rand said.

“Do you-- have children?” Quentin asked, though he thought he would have heard of this before if he had.

“No, I never settled down. _Married to the game,_ Eliot calls it. I suppose that is a term you know as well.”

“I do. At least you know that about yourself. I was caught up in the game, too, sort of-- our own brand of crazy-- only I kept trying to have a life at the same time? A girlfriend, Alice, we-- we never made it work,” he sighed. “I should have just stayed focused, like you.”

“Is that-- I mean, you’re going to have a baby, now. And you have your quest,” Rand noted.

“Well, the quest hardly counts as _game,_ we’ll keep doing it, regardless, but it’s not that all-consuming, it’s more like, just a regular job? I don’t really have to choose. I mean, I _do,_ I have, but not between the puzzle and the baby. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

They walked down to the riverbend, where they sat and talked for two hours. It was hard for Quentin at first, since Rand was Eliot’s, and that meant he had to suppress the sliver of guilt he felt over things he’d imagined in the dark, and many other swirling emotions he couldn’t name as well. But Rand was so gentle, so kind, and gave no sign whatsoever that he had anything on his mind, ever, but Quetin’s well-being, that Quentin was soon able to get past the specific reasons he’d sent for him and just let it all out. 

 

*

Mama was making eggs and sausage when Eliot limped downstairs. She had set a place for him at the kitchen work table. He looked like hell, though he was freshly shaven, pale, with bags under his eyes.

“Not from talking pigs, don’t worry,” Mama said, as she dished him up a plate. “And the eggs came with consent.” The tavern had gone mostly vegetarian since the boys had taken up t’the Mosaic, when she got tired of being interrogated over the meat’s provenance each time she served some. 

“Oh my god, I haven’t had meat in _so long!_ It smells amazing,” Eliot gushed.

“When I heard you on the deck just before dawn, I knew you two had a hell of a night. Thought you could use a hangover cure. Pulled these out of that icebox thing you made.”

“Then I hope I did it right,” Eliot said, pulling his plate closer. “Margo was the cryomancer. Any word from the Mosaic?” he asked, concerned, as he did a tut she knew all too well over his tea, part of his own hangover cure.

“Quentin’s still up t’the Mosaic last I heard. Now, eat. You look rode hard and put away wet,” Mama said, and Eliot snorted tea through his nose.

“Aw, all over my shirt. I literally just put this on,” he pouted. He gave it a tut and it dried, stainless, instantly. “You did that on purpose.”

“Who, me?” Mama smirked. “I just meant you look like shit. You gonna tell me why I sent you out all those bottles last night? And all come back empty? Were we celebratin’ or drownin’ our sorrows?” she asked, part of her bartender patter.

“Por qué no los dos?” he muttered around a mouthful of sausage.

“I don’t know what that means.”

Eliot dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, then looked down as he folded it back over his lap, smoothing it down in long strokes as he considered. “It means they’re having a baby. Which is great for them. And when we solve the puzzle, I will most likely leave alone. So their family grows and mine gets smaller. Again. So yeah, I needed a night off.” He finished off the tea and poured some more, giving it a tut like she added cream.

“You mean when you solve it. But not till then?” Mama prodded.

“Well, I mean--” 

“Not gonna move in here?”

“No…” he said slowly, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Did you want me to?”

“No. You’re always welcome, of course, but what I’m getting at is, if you’re not moving out, then you’re _all_ having a baby, not just them,” Mama said.

“Oh, well, that. I mean, we’re _not._ All having a baby. It’s theirs. I’ll help, I guess, a bit, but this is-- no. This is their thing.” He stabbed at his food, a technique that was not working to get eggs onto the fork. 

“Eliot.”

“No. This does _not_ mean--“ he stabbed again, and again. “Look, this baby, _this is why I leave alone._ That’s what this plot development is. This isn’t-- no.” 

“What, El?”

“It will be hard enough, forcing myself through a portal and leaving them behind. I’m not going to make it worse by-- no. We’re not _all_ having a baby. That’s not what this is. Can I just eat, please?” Eliot asked, irritated.

“Eliot, you’re doing it again.”

“Mama--” he began, in a tone that said she didn’t understand, but she did, all too well.

“Listen. You always want me to tell you things. Last time I didn’t. But this time I have something to say-- a couple of things, actually-- and I want you to listen.”

“Okay… Does this mean I can eat? Wait-- is the breakfast _bait?”_ Eliot asked with narrowed eyes.

“Smartass. I only use food to catch Quentins. Eliot traps involve liquor.”

“Point to Mama, one-love,” he muttered, and went back to his food. “So, talk.”

“Let’s ignore the fact that you’ve been here three years and show no signs of going anywhere,” she began.

“You’re sharp today,” he noted. “Usually you don’t talk about this.”

“I made the tea strong,” she shrugged.

“Or we made the spell weak. But go on, you were reminding me of our endless parade of failure, what’s your point?” he said, taking another bite. 

“I’m not so sure it _is_ a failure, but this ain’t about getting into _my_ head. Let’s get into yours. You think you’re leaving any day, bags by the door, right? Any day could be your last. Wake up in your bed and then never sleep in it again?”

“Are you trying to make me feel better, or worse?”

“I’m trying to make you see that ain’t different than any one of us.”

“It _is,_ though, Mama. Four puzzles a day, and any one of them--”

“Gish pulls up that millstone more times a day than that. And you probably don’t know, that ain’t the first stone that mill’s had. T’other [ tasted blood ](http://www.angelfire.com/journal/millrestoration/millstones.html), they pulled it out of there.” 

“Tasted--”

“It killed the miller,” Mama said simply. 

“I see…” Eliot slowly put down his fork. “Not-- sentiently?” 

“No, that’s just superstition. It just fell on him. It happens,” she shrugged. “Not very often. But often enough that Gish is taking his life in his hands every day he goes to work.”

“Right, but--”

“And Wick and Tassie go out every day with those sheep because of wolves. They ain’t seen any in years, but you know they give all their pups that extra bit of lovins every morning just in case.”

“And you could have a crate of booze fall on you, and Hund could get robbed at knifepoint, I get it,” he said dismissively. He reached for the teapot, emptying it into his mug.

“Don’t blow me off, you damn fool,” Mama said, smacking her hand flat on the table. “You don’t get shit. Are Magicians immortal and you just haven’t mentioned it? Because you act like nothin’s ever going to happen to you that ain’t all fancy and magic. Us plain ol’ folk just live and die but you get _plot developments._ Well, here’s a fucking plot development for you, sometimes we go out hunting and come home dead in cart! _Ember’s hooves,”_ she muttered angrily as she stood and grabbed the teapot, hands shaking, taking it back to the counter and busying herself with it, turning away from Eliot so he couldn’t see the tears starting to form. _Not now,_ she thought desperately. _I don’t have time to cry now._ She felt the weight of the grave outside, heavy enough to tip the whole tavern down into the river.

Eliot broke the silence. “How long did you have?”

She took a breath, dropping her head, and leaned forward with both hands gripping the edge of the prep counter. “Doesn’t matter. Wasn’t enough.”

“Mama, I’m sorry...” Eliot said softly. 

“Yeah, well,” she said, turning around to face him and leaning back on the counter. Her eyes were red but she managed to hold it back, her jaw set. “I ain’t tryin’ to get into all that. I’m just trying to make you see what you won’t see. We’re _all_ leaving any day, El. that’s the deal.”

“Hmm,” he said, furrowing his brow at his plate. He played with his fork, making little circles in the crumbs.

“You ain't _special,”_ she continued. “I mean, you’re special to _me,_ and you’re a Child of Earth and a Magician and maybe a King--” 

He looked up at her sharply. He didn’t stop her, but his steely eyes told her she’d better make her point and back the fuck up off of _that._

“--but you ain’t special in _this,_ Eliot, you’re just down here with the rest of us mere mortals, faced with the same puzzle we all have to solve. _All of us, El._ And it’ll fuck you up, I ain’t gonna lie. _We all get fucked up when it ends._ ” She sat down across from him and reached for his hand with both of hers. “It’s what you do _before_ that, how you live it till then that matters. That’s _all_ that matters. You can’t use it as an excuse not to live the life you’re in. In fact, live it good enough and when the time comes you’re laughin’, because you _win._ You don’t, you waste this life by pulling back from the people you love, and that little boy that’s comin’, you lose twice, and you’ll take everyone down with you.”

They sat, eyes locked, for a long while. 

“You think it’s gonna be a boy?” Eliot said finally.

“Yep.” She didn’t know _how_ she knew that, but she knew she was right. 

“He’ll have his parents,” Eliot said quietly, breaking their gaze. “Great parents. He doesn’t need me fucking him up.”

“El, that’s what I’m gettin’ at. You can’t live in that house with your bags by the door. You gotta really _live_ there, and not just for you. That little boy, that new life, the three of you will be his whole world. Do _not_ pull back from this, don’t run away. _That’s_ what will fuck him up. You’ll only make him feel like the world isn’t sure, that he can’t even trust all the people in his own home.”

He slumped back in his chair with his mug, holding it to his chest with both hands. “The world _isn’t_ sure, Mama.” 

“You want him to learn that from _you?”_

“But if I do get close to him, and then leave, won’t that be worse?”

“Worse than knowing you can’t run to Uncle Eliot for a hug because he won’t hug you back? Because he avoids your eyes and won’t look at your drawings? Worse than having your mother try to explain why the man she and Daddy love won’t love _you?”_

“Okay, okay, I take your point,” he said, waving a hand at her.

“Do you?” She had to be sure. She couldn’t let him fuck this up, too. “‘Cuz Ember’s hooves, Eliot, you’re a _fucking force of nature._ And you’ll loom even larger in the eyes of a child. If you make him feel like you can’t love him--”

“I do, Mama. I _do_ love him,” he said, sitting up and leaning in to her. “Already, somehow. More than I ever felt for my own baby. Which makes me a piece of shit, not a force of nature. A piece of shit that shouldn’t be anywhere _near_ this kid. _Especially_ if I love him.”

She sighed and shook her head. Getting past his defenses wasn’t like storming a castle, it was like chasing rats in the storeroom, they just kept coming back. “El, honey, you don’t know the power you have. The love you give is fierce, and so _strong,_ it makes _us_ stronger, those of us lucky enough to get it. Let him be one of the lucky ones, El. Be there. Be _present._ Live the life you’re in, all the way. Until you can’t, for whatever reason, and maybe you’ll even get the chance to help him through that, but for now, for _today,_ you have to complete the circle. Not pull it apart trying to protect yourself with excuses.” 

“I’m not--” he protested.

“Eliot.” Mama glared at him with narrowed eyes. 

He looked away and shrugged. “Anyway, it’s not up to me.”

“Isn’t it?” _Another rat,_ she thought. _May the gods give me strength._

“I mean, _my part is,_ I know what you’re trying to say. I’m supposed to _seize the day_ and all that shit. But whether or not I’m part of it, that’s not up to me, it’s up to them. It’s their little family,” he said, and she could hear the ache of being excluded in his voice.

“Ari will want you to be a part of it. You know that.”

“I _don’t_ know that. _Ride or die_ doesn’t usually involve your roommate’s baby. And then there’s Quentin--”

“Have you talked to him?”

“Last night.”

“And how was that?”

Eliot ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. “Confusing.”

“Hmm.” She sat back and gave him the space to catch up, which he did, eventually.

“You know, I want to-- I want to have a second chance, I do,” Eliot said. “You once told me to think about being a good husband... I wouldn’t mind having a second chance with a baby. To hold her-- _him--_ when he’s tiny, to watch him grow and… Goddamn it, everything comes full circle. I’m back on the farm, in the middle of nowhere, and I’m Uncle Eliot again.” He sighed, and rubbed his face with both hands.

“Big family?”

Eliot nodded. _“Breeders,_ I would have said,” and he sneered the word to show her how he would have said it. “Now, I--”

“Miss them?”

 _“God_ no!” he shuddered, and then softened. “Except the babies. _When_ they’re babies, mind you. Babies don’t judge. Then eventually, they grow up and learn to hate Uncle Eliot, or at best _claim_ they still love him while they pray for his soul.”

Mama’s heart broke for him and she placed a hand on his arm and squeezed. “I know, honey,” she said. “And that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Raise up a child in a home that doesn’t give him unconditional love, where the adults in his life have their heads so stuffed with their own bullshit they can’t even _see_ this little heart in front of them, trying to love them--”

“And he turns out like me,” Eliot sighed heavily, his eyes welling with tears. “Yeah, I know.”

“I can’t afford the liquor if you make another one of you,” Mama smirked.

Eliot snorted a laugh. 

“It’s okay to want this,” Mama said softly, reaching for his hand. “I know you do, by how hard you’re fighting against it. Don’t be afraid of wanting this. Be brave.”

He gripped her hand tight as his head snapped up so fast it made a tear fall onto his cheek. He looked at her curiously. “You’re doing it again,” he said. “Saying exactly the right thing. How the _fuck_ do you _do_ that?”

“I have magic too,” Mama shrugged, patting his hand. “Not that I need it with _you,_ everything _you_ feel is written all over you, like a book.” She gave him a sly grin. “And you think you hide it all, it’s so cute.”

He sat up and brushed the tear from his cheek like it was a fly. He rolled his shoulders as he tossed his curls and looked defiantly at her _._ “No, it’s _you,_ somehow you see through it, that’s all.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said, giving up on the obvious.

“Anyway, I need to take a walk. I’m all stiff from sitting here so long. And I think I’m going to need to come up with something to say to a few of our neighbors, after last night,” he said as he rose. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“And you’re gonna think about this too, right?” Mama frowned.

“Nothing to think about, Mama,” he said decisively, rolling his shoulders again and jutting out his chin. “You’re right. The baby’s well-being comes first. So, Uncle Eliot it is. Until it isn’t, and it’ll fuck me up then-- but whatever, I have experience in this funpark.” He folded his arms across his chest. “It’s the best thing for the baby, and Ari, and Q, so, fuck it. Carpe diem, seize the day, _laissez les bons temps rouler._ Did I pass?” he said, sounding irritated.

“Eliot, no,” she said as she stood, leaning on the table with her fists. “Not like that. You’re still trying to be too clever by half. If you _pretend--_ sitting all smiling on a crate of your own pain, all packed away, trying to hide it-- it just doesn’t _count,_ it undoes the good you’re tryin’ to do. You gotta let go and jump into your life with both feet, and _fucking enjoy it._ Embrace it, _cherish_ it, for every second you’ve got it. _All or nothin’,_ you get me?” 

She paused. He fidgeted, his eyes boring down at the table between them. 

“You know. You’ve already lived it,” she went on slowly, her voice low and steady. “And you hurt him _real fucking bad_ with it, El. You almost broke him. _Don’t. do it. again.”_

Eliot snapped his eyes up, the steel in them a shield that clashed, almost audibly, with the sword in her own. He exhaled heavily through his nose. 

“You know I’m right,” she said, not backing down.

“You always are,” he mumbled, and he turned on his heel and went out the door.

 

Mama sank down into a chair. She was exhausted, and her head pounded.  “I wish you were here,” she said to the empty room as she rose again to make a fresh pot of tea. “Course, if you were, maybe I wouldn’t know how it was... _‘K, Sarrah, Sarrah? whatever will be, will be..._ ” she sang softly to herself, a tune that Eliot had took ahold of a few weeks ago and refused to let go. _“The future’s not ours to see, ‘k, Sarrah, Sarrah?”_

 

 

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umber continues to steal from the Bible. Don't be surprised for him to plagiarize Shakespeare and Plato as well.
> 
> The song is of course our same Doris Day tune, but the way I thought the words went when I was a kid.
> 
> The angelfire link about the millstone isn't working right now, hopefully it will be back up, but this was a medieval superstition that if a miller was killed by the millstone they would pull it out and bury it or sink it in a river because it had "tasted blood." Can't quickly find another source to cite for that, but hopefully angelfire comes back up.
> 
> And Mama's magic? Author Magic. :) 
> 
> See you Monday! Have a great week!


	29. Call Me By Your Name (2017)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arielle wakes up.

Arielle was five. She was tall for her age but she still fit comfortably in her mother’s lap, swaying back and forth with her mother’s rocking, head against her chest, eyes closed. Her mother was singing.

_“Sweet little bird at my window, won’t you please sing me a song? My days are so quiet and lonely, I ain’t heard a tune in so long.”_

But it wasn’t her mother’s voice. It was Sister Bea. 

_“‘Take a walk with me,’ the little bird sang, ‘The woods are filled with life. And when you get tired you’ll rest your head and forget about your strife.’”_

She opened her eyes, but she wasn’t in front of the little fireplace at home. She was outside, in front of a bonfire, and there were benches all around with a dozen colorfully dressed women, many of whom swayed or tapped a foot to Sister Bea’s song.

She was at the old compound of CODE PINK (the Community Of Disenfranchised Ember Priestesses Igniting New Knowledge), and she wasn’t five anymore. She was thirteen, and she was sitting next to Sister Bea, looking up at her mentor and mother figure. She had many, but she was closest to Sister Bea. She looked older now, too. The other benches were now empty. 

“I don’t know why, and that’s the truth,” Bea was saying simply. “Why your village and not another? How did little five-year-old you get out of sight of your parents? Why that day of all days you would get lost in the woods and far enough away from the village that you didn’t disappear, too? I just don’t know. I’ve prayed for guidance, but, you know how it is,” she sighed, “it’s hard to get a god’s attention.”

“Which is why we have to make our own rules,” Arielle said rotely. 

“That’s right. And...”

“Face bravely the chaos of the gods and protect those that cannot,” Arielle said, swinging her legs beneath her.

“Very good,” Sister Bea nodded. “And that is why we took you in, child, and raised you as our own. And if we do it right, when you go out into the world, you’ll be one of the ones who can.”

Now Arielle was back to her own age of twenty-four, and even though she was much taller she couldn’t shake the sense that she was still looking up at Bea, whose face still glowed with the flickering light of the bonfire. Also, somehow their bench had become divided into two short benches that touched as if they were still one, except for how Arielle’s was wobbly and wouldn’t stay balanced.

“I wish my mom was here,” Arielle sighed, as she tried to right her bench.

“I know.”

“I don’t know anything about being pregnant, or giving birth, none of you--” Arielle tried to hold herself up with her legs to keep in balance.

“Yes, it is an area in which we lack expertise. And romances, as well-- most of us, at any rate. But you seem to have done well in that regard, twice over. You need the other leg,” Bea noted, motioning to Arielle’s bench, which was now a stool. “You can’t keep holding yourself up like that on just three.”

“But isn’t it supposed to be three?” Arielle frowned.  

“We make our own rules,” Bea said sagely, “in the face of the chaos of the gods.”

“I opened my own bakery.”

“Yes, I know, you wrote me.”

“Did I?” Arielle didn’t remember that. She grabbed at the seat of the stool and tried to hoist the weak side up. “But you’re dead.”

“Well, maybe I dreamed it. Or you did,” Bea shrugged. “Glad to hear you’re keeping up the family tradition of sticking it to the patriarchy.”

“But I’m pregnant. And not just with one man, but two.”

“What did I tell you, child? Just because this pack of wild birds doesn’t need any men doesn’t mean the world doesn’t. It doesn’t mean you don’t. Love them, have babies with them, make a life with them, just don’t let them _own_ you, that’s all. But these men don’t. You’re an equal part of Team Queliot, correct?”

Arielle nodded. She didn’t remember telling her that, either, but her back and neck were stiff from holding herself up and she didn’t feel like arguing about it.

“You really need the other leg, dear,” Bea said. “We make our own rules.”  

 

Arielle woke with a start when her shoulder was shaken. Her hands grated against the grit on the rock when she scrambled to sit up. 

“Ari, sweetheart, hey, it’s me,” Eliot said, and chuckled. “Did you fall asleep on dry land, Little Mermaid? Lose your fins?” He looked hungover, his eyes red, his curls unruly, even though he sounded cheerful and he smiled at her like she was lemonade on a hot day, same as always. _Shiny, shiny Eliot._

“We make our own rules in the face of the chaos of the gods,” Arielle said, as if that explained everything, but then realized from Eliot’s curious look that she wasn’t talking sense and began to more fully take in her surroundings. The suns were streaming light into the little clearing, and the little stream babbled happily. 

“Oh, shit, El, what time is it?” she groaned. A leaf was stuck to her hair and hung down over one eye. She brushed it aside with irritation. The last thing she remembered was sitting there trying to remember the song her mother sang her.

“Time is an illusion.” This earned him a glare, so he cocked his head back to where the suns were glowing through the trees. “Feels like… nine in the morning? Ten, maybe?”

She groaned again. Her stomach felt awful and she was stiff all over. She had been dreaming-- about Bea, and broken furniture? But it was already slipping from her mind. “Oh fuck, I didn’t mean to stay out here all night. And I didn’t open the bakery! Oh Ember--” She rolled quickly and leaned over the stream side of the rock and vomited.

Eliot squatted down beside her to rub her back and hold her hair. “Right there with you, sister.”

“No, it’s--” she gasped between heaves.

“Yeah, I know,” Eliot laughed, and then groaned himself when his head panged in response. “I’m not sure which one of us had more fun to get here, though.”

 _Oh, right, Rand,_ she thought. As the days had drawn closer to his visit, Eliot had taken more and more chances to get drag her off alone to squeal about it, pick out clothes, cut his hair. _I’m glad he didn’t have to miss that because of me. Gonna have to hear more about that, later._

She grinned as she looked back to punch him in the leg, and then rolled back over to sit with her back against the upright stone. “So, I’m having a baby,” she said matter-of-factly.

“It would seem so. Nothing like the feeling of having a rabbit show up out of nowhere and say that. Been there. May I sit? Or do you need to go open the bakery?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “I feel like shit. No one probably expects me to open, after last night, and Gabby’s off today anyway, it’s fine, I give up for today. Sit,” she said, patting the space beside her. She was in his usual spot, but she thought it best to stay close to the stream. “Where’s Quentin?” If Eliot had been with Rand, then they’d both left him alone.

“I have no idea,” he said, settling down on her right, stretching his legs out before him. She noticed that wince again, when he bent his hip. “I haven’t quite gotten up the courage to re-enter our domicile. Thought I’d stop by here first, calm the nerves. I’ve had a day already and it’s barely started.” He fished a pipe out of his pocket. 

 _Eliot wouldn’t have left the Mosaic if Quentin seemed bad off,_ she thought, relieved. _But if he’s worried about going back…_ Her eyes narrowed. “Did you fight? What did you _say,_ Eliot?”

“Me? Ha!” he said, holding his breath, and exhaled. “I was a pussycat. Not like Mama. She came at me like a fucking tiger mom.”

“Oh, shit,” she said, her eyes widening. “I thought the unmarried pregnant lady was supposed to be the one in trouble. Ugh, the smell of that is making me sick.”

“So sorry, of course,” Eliot said, putting it out and resting it beside him. “I thought since we were outside-- well, anyway, that will make it easier not to smoke while you’re pregnant.”

“Oh, _fuck.”_ She laid her head back against the rock that made the back of their huge natural chair, and looked up at the sky. “This just gets better and better. F.M.L.”

“Are you _chatspeaking_ now? [ _Wilkommen,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scixjBIHmHY) we _have_ fully corrupted you.”

 _“And_ knocked me up! Shoulda known better than to take up with the boys up t’the Mosaic,” she sighed with a wry smile, taking his hand and intertwining their fingers.

 _“Our dumb boys._ That’s what they call us in the Village.”

“I know.”

“Shame we’re so damned irresistible,” he smirked, squeezing her hand and joining her in studying the sky. “We are indeed very bad men.”

“The worst,” she sighed.

“The worst,” Eliot agreed contentedly. They shared a comfortable silence for a moment.

“What did you do to Quentin?” Arielle asked, nothing but curiosity in her voice.

“I just--” He sighed, sounding tired. “We had quest stuff to talk about. Roles to sort out. Having a baby… put some things in flux, you might say.”

“You know, sometimes that shit is cute, but today I want to punch you in the face,” Arielle said simply, turning to look at him. “I’m pregnant ay eff and I just spent the night on a rock. Out with it.”

“Okay, fine. Although you won’t be _pregnant af_ for months yet.” He shifted onto a hip to look at her. “When we solve the puzzle and we get the key, it needs to-- get someplace, for our quest.”

“Right, I mean, it’s a key, it’s probably for a door somewhere, right? Or a chest?” Arielle asked. He had told her before, but she couldn’t remember.

“Yeah, okay,” Eliot shrugged. “Sure. A door. And that place, that um, door... isn’t safe for babies? So having one means... changing how the key gets there? And we were arguing about that. _Jesus,_ I sound like Quentin,” he muttered to himself.

“See? Was that so hard?” Arielle scoffed. She didn’t _really_ understand, their quest was hella confusing, but like a movie reference or an Earth saying, she got enough. Quest logistics, like the fight they had the night she first told them about the bakery.

“You have no idea,” Eliot sighed as he sank back against the upright stone.

They had gotten over the bakery fight, whatever that was, and neither man ever spoke about it again, but it had gotten heated. “Well, did you piss him off? Are we going back to snappish, arm-flapping Quentin, or silent, sulky Quentin?” 

“I don’t know,” Eliot said. He winced. “Maybe… weepy, kissy Quentin?” 

 _“Excuse_ me?” Her eyes widened as she turned to look at him.  

Eliot put up his hands in defense. “It was just a momentary thing. Of _friendship,”_ he hastened to add. “I just didn’t want to keep it a secret from you. I’m sorry. It just-- happened. _Please_ don’t be mad at him.”

“No… it’s okay,” Arielle reassured him with a smile, taking back his closer hand and pulling it down to rest between them. “I know weepy, kissy Quentin too. Sometimes it just comes at you before you see it coming.”

 _“Right?_ Usually in mid-sentence!”

“I _know,”_ Arielle laughed heartily. “He just like, _runs out of words_ all of a sudden and all he can do is that. And you’re just like, right there, _trying_ to listen because he’s probably all worked up about something important and he’s really hard to follow and then BAM--”

“You’re kissing! It’s insane!” Eliot laughed with her. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said, squeezing his hand. “So does Baby.”

“Oh, yeah?” Eliot cocked an eyebrow at her.

That was one of the many things they had sorted out as they walked, she and Baby. But as she had made her way to the Rock following Eliot’s firefly trail-- carefully randomized to appear natural, but a clear path to the two of them-- and climbed up to its seat, Arielle had still felt _off_ about everything, the world feeling hazy and unreal. _We make our own rules in the face of the chaos of the gods,_ she heard Bea saying in her dream. Or possibly it was a memory, she had certainly heard it enough growing up. This was, oddly, followed by Bea saying, _You need the other leg,_ which somehow felt like it had to do with Eliot but was definitely from the dream. But sitting here in the dappled sunlight of a clear morning, she felt the world solidify. _Easy like Sunday morning,_ as Eliot sometimes sang, and she now understood what Mama meant by _complicated,_ because this suddenly wasn’t at all. _We make our own rules._

“Yeah. Listen, El.” Arielle turned on her hip this time, snuggling into the crook of his arm as he placed it around her, and put a hand on his chest. “I came out here to think last night. To catch up on how I felt about everything. I felt weird, and I couldn’t explain it, which is not my scene, as you know. And now I--” She frowned. “I think I get it. And I think I should talk to Q first? But this is more about you. Or, not? Maybe not. Oh gods, now _I’m_ being Quentin,” she sighed.

“He’s contagious,” Eliot agreed, squeezing her waist. “Deep breaths, sweetheart.”

She took one and started again. “I did a weird thing. I fell in love with two men. Well, not with _two_ men, but with a _pair_ of men. _Team Queliot._ This thing that you are-- I love each of you, deeply, in different ways, but I’m _in_ love with Queliot, the both of you, together, how you are with each other, how you are with me. Does that make any sense?” 

“Rings a bell,” Eliot said thickly.

“And so I sort of feel like-- I mean, I know it’s _so weird,_ but I feel like this baby came from that. From that love. And I don’t know what’s going to happen or what Q will think about this, I do know, in my _bones,_ El, that I need you with me. The baby needs you. And not just as like, a friend of the family or uncle or whatever but as a father, a second father. Like I feel it in my heart.”

They both became very still in the morning light, their eyes locked, hers strong and searching, his wide and melting, and terrified, and maybe like he’d realized something too? Arielle couldn’t read it so she pressed on, wrapping her fingers into the front of his shirt.

“I know what I’m asking, El,” she said. “I know how you feel about Fray and Fen and how all that went down, and whatever with Quentin, and I know, _I know,_ this is so much. _Too_ much. But I’m asking. You can say no. But this is it, you know? _Ride or die.”_

Eliot swallowed. “Oh shit,” he said quietly. He squeezed his eyes shut and ducked his head, and for a few moments there was only the sound of his breathing, heavy through his nose. “All or nothin’,” he murmured under his breath in a distinctly Mama-like way. “Jesus Christ.”

“El?” Arielle said.

He looked back up at her as if he weren’t sure what was going to happen next. Then he took a breath and rolled his shoulders. An Eliot pronouncement was coming. “No matter what happens to me, I’ll always be with you, forever,”  he said, quoting their duet. 

“I don’t want to hear from John Smith, I want it from _you,”_ she insisted. Her eyes welled up with tears. She _couldn’t_ let him put on a show now, not with something this important. 

His dropped his shoulders as his eyes grew serious and fond. “You don’t know how much that’s about me, Princess,” he said, reaching forward to tuck her hair behind her ear. The words sounded heavy but once they were out he looked light again. A grin spread across his face. “But I’ll translate. Ride or die, bitch,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “For reals. But only if Quentin--” 

“Quentin will just have to deal with it. Those are my terms,” she said. A great weight lifted off her as well, even as her stomach lurched again. She brought her hand to the nape of his neck and pulled their foreheads together. “I would get all weepy and kiss you in mid-sentence but I think I’m going to be sick again.”

“Oh well, by all means, m’lady,” he said, pulling back from her and motioning with his hand. “Your stream awaits.” 

 _Shiny, shiny Eliot_ was back, but that was okay now-- in fact, it felt familiar and safe, warming her like the ovens, but she couldn’t enjoy him right this second. She turned away to lean over the rock and he pulled back her hair. “Coldwater--” she started, and heaved. “Waugh.” She heaved again.

“What?”

“Coldwater-Waugh,” she said as she finally sat back, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist. “Like you always call Quentin. For the baby. As a last name, I mean.”

“Why, it sounds delightful with puke on your tongue.”

She punched him in the thigh.

“Ow!” he said, rubbing the spot. “You are going to have to rein in this punching thing before the baby comes, Xena.”

“I only hit grown men,” she scoffed. “He can wait his turn. But really, El--”

“I don’t know,” he laughed, “it’s just so… _English._ Very _Brideshead Revisited._ ”

“You came up with it! We could go with Queliot.”

“Ugh, no, gross,” he shuddered playfully. “Coldwater-Waugh has a certain ring to it, I’ll admit. Very grand… very royal. King Coldwater-Waugh,” he chuckled quietly to himself. “Heir to the throne.”

“So it _is_ weird,” she sighed. “Plus, I mean, none of us are married…”

“I am, just not to any of you,” Eliot chuckled. “Sweetheart, _nothing is weird when everything is._ We should put that on the Coldwater-Waugh family crest. C’mon, let’s go find Q.” He pocketed his pipe and rose, reaching for her hand. “Find out which one we’ve got. You can puke on the way.”

“Gonna get Quentin to find a way to magic this baby into _you,_ Waugh,” she snarled, as she took his hand, “if you don’t shut your sassy mouth.”

“I love it when you dom me,” he smirked, and then groaned from the pull on his sore shoulder as he lifted her to her feet.

They crossed the clearing and entered the overgrown path, hand-in-hand, not sure what awaited them at home, but more sure than ever that was where the path would lead.

  
  


tbc

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fireflies have no free will in this Village. Please spare a thought for them, because Eliot never does.
> 
> No song credit because I made up the lullaby. Pick your tune, I’m sure whatever’s in your head is better than what’s in mine.
> 
> CODE PINK is obviously a FOO Fighters-esque joke, but those ladies might come into play more in the future...
> 
> Movie Night has been extended for one more movie, this chapter got out of hand so I split into two, which is why this one is a bit short, also, sorry. But it also buys me a bit of time as I work on the next three (or four?) part “episode”, which features three new characters! It helps me to write them in chunks like this, I hope you like this format because it seems to be working for me. Let me know in the comments, or just say hi! Always glad to see the neighbors of our Village, and the comments section is our Square. Let’s get together and chat!


	30. Back To The Future (1985)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two paths bring four people back to the Mosaic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([Evolve by Phoria](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYhbA8EblsA) has been playing in my head all day as I finished polishing this. Don't make me cry alone.)

Quentin and Rand made their way back up the River Road to the Mosaic under the rustling of the trees. The day was already starting to warm up, and combined with the uphill trek and the persistent hangover, Quentin really just wanted a nap while he waited for everyone to return for lunch.

He was feeling more calm than he had since this time yesterday, which was odd under the circumstances. But the quietly babbling river and Rand’s steady presence were soothing. And he was standing on top of his feelings, for once, like Arielle did, and that felt good. Unfortunately, almost every other part of him was complaining loudly. He was physically exhausted and emotionally wrung out, he missed sunglasses, and his stomach had that odd feeling of being just about to growl but never doing it.

“So you’re all set? Know what you’re going to say?” Rand asked.

“Yes, Rand, thanks, I think so. Thank you so much for all this. I’m sorry--”

“Don’t apologize. You do that too much, I thought we established that,” Rand noted.

“Hmm. How’s your shoulder?”

“Better.”

“Keep stretching it.”

“Yeah. Thanks for teaching me that.”

“I did a lot of physical therapy for this,” Quentin said, knocking on his wooden shoulder. “I could write a thesis on shoulder stretches.”

 _“The Mosaic giveth and The Mosaic taketh away,”_ Rand chuckled. “And how’s your hangover?"

“My head doesn’t hurt so much. The tea helped a lot, thanks.”

“What we need is breakfast,” Rand said. “And I can’t take credit for the tea, Mama sent it. Maybe she knew about the flask?”

“Maybe. She knows everything,” Quentin shrugged. They had reached the Mosaic, about three hours early for lunch. “Thanks for walking me home, did you want to stay, or--” but then he heard familiar voices coming from around the house.

Eliot and Arielle had apparently cut through the woods on the other side. His heart started to pound and the skin on his arms prickled, the placid calm of the riverbank fading fast. Amazingly, they sounded just the same as usual, relaxed and bantering.

“C’mon, you know practically _everything_ about me!” he heard Eliot wheedle.

“Nope. It’s too stupid,” Arielle insisted.

“It’s just your last name, how stupid can it be? Humperdinck? Cumberbatch? [Leach](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cary_Grant)?” 

 _“Cumberbatch,”_ she snorted. “That’s not a name.”

“Oh, sure, _Pickwick_ flies in Fillory but not Cumberbatch. Please,” Eliot scoffed. 

The magician and the priest had made it all the way to the clothesline that made a curtain between the front yard and the firepit, putting them just feet away from Eliot and Arielle.

“I guess it’s showtime,” Quentin said quietly to Rand.

“Just don’t forget your lines,” Rand whispered.

“Hey guys-- hey-- I wasn’t expecting either of you back so soon,” Quentin said, parting the clothes on the line and ducking under to come through. He held them back for Rand to follow, which allowed him to avoid their eyes for a few more seconds.

“A parishioner?” Eliot said to Rand with a raised eyebrow. 

“He is. You all are, don’t forget. Arielle, good morning. How are you, dear? Feeling alright?” Rand asked.

“Yes, Father, thanks. A bit sick this morning because of… you know, and sore from sleeping in the woods by accident-- Q,” she said, going into Quentin’s arms for a hug. “I never made it to the bakery. I only meant to take a walk for a couple of hours, to get my head on straight. But then I passed out and ended up sleeping out all night. Eliot found me. I’m not going in today, we should-- we should talk.”

“We definitely should,” Quentin agreed. 

“Did your magic thing work out?” Arielle asked.

He looked up at Eliot, who was looking back at him curiously. His night with Rand had taken its toll on him, too, apparently. But he didn’t look upset, or angry. He looked more like he’d been visited by Dickens’ ghosts, exhausted but hopeful, which was a relief. 

“Turned out to be a red herring,” Quentin shrugged.

“And now I think,” Rand said lightly, “that you all need to talk. I’m going inside to make tea. If anyone needs me, I’m just a few steps away.”

“Thanks, Rand, I really owe you,” Quentin said, joined by murmurs of thanks from Arielle and Eliot. 

And now they stood alone, the three of them looking a bit like people waiting for an Uber, not looking at each other. _If we had phones we’d all be scrolling through them,_ Quentin thought. Butterflies started a conga line in his stomach. No one moved, or spoke. He knew so much was going to happen in the next few minutes, but all his words had left him and he had no idea where to begin. He couldn’t seem to raise his eyes off of the colorful border on the hem of Arielle’s white dress. It was coming loose. He’d fix it later.

“So...” Arielle began.

Quentin cleared his throat. _Fuck it,_ he thought, and moved his hand behind his back to do a mending tut to fix her dress. Arielle didn’t notice, as she was looking back and forth between them.

Eliot raised an arm, pulling on it with the other, to give his shoulder a stretch. 

“I thought we were all going to talk?” Arielle said.

“Don’t look at me. I _definitely_ shouldn’t go first,” Eliot said. 

Quentin opened his mouth, and closed it again. He looked down at his shoes. _I’ve worn another hole in the toe,_ he thought idly. 

Arielle gave a theatrical sigh. “Oh Ember’s _balls,_ you idiots! Is this because you kissed last night?”

Quentin’s head snapped up at Eliot.

Eliot looked back at him, startled, and then rolled his shoulders. “Sorrynotsorry, it’s a clause of _ride or die,"_ he said. “Plus, she’s not _Alice._ You’re fine,” he said with a wave.

“Fuck my life,” Quentin muttered, rubbing his face with a hand. He wanted to crawl in a hole.

“Quentin, boo, it’s okay, I mean, look at him. None of us are immune,” Arielle said lightly, taking Quentin’s free hand to hold it.

“Minx,” Eliot retorted. 

So apparently it _was_ fine, they seemed normal, no fallout. _Stronger than we were, or just older? Or is it because it’s Ari and not Alice?_ Quentin wondered, but it didn’t matter. He felt himself starting to relax again as she squeezed his hand. 

“So, you talked to Rand this morning?” Arielle asked, ignoring Eliot.

“Oh, I-- yeah. Sorry El, I sorta stole him,” Quentin said sheepishly.

“Nonsense,” Eliot said. “He’s a wonderful priest, good to talk to. Borrow him anytime. For priest things. Not for _sexy_ priest things, I call dibs on that.”

“Please don’t interpret this as judgement, because I really think--ugh-- you’re cute together, I just--ugh-- need to--” Arielle said as she ran off around the house.

Quentin took a step to follow but Eliot put out a hand.

“She’ll be back. Q, did you--” he began.

“Yeah. I did.” Quentin took a deep breath. “I want off the train.”

Eliot chewed on the inside of his lip and nodded curtly.

“I’m sorry--” Quentin began, but stopped. “God, I’m doing it again. That’s my thing, isn’t it? Apologizing for wanting something. I want this, and I’m not going to feel bad about that anymore, and it’s not because you said it was okay-- I mean it is, kinda, because you brought it up-- but I mean I’m not like _deciding_ it because you said I could? Or because you pretty much told me to--”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come at you like that--” 

“But you were right, about the fairies and everything, I just hadn’t thought it through. That’s the logic part. But you were also right about wanting this, I wasn’t just lying to you, or to Ari. I just-- I felt-- so guilty? And embarrassed? Over not being-- Like I’m a Frodo who says fuck it and just stays in the Shire, like, who _does_ that?”

Eliot stepped forward and pulled Quentin into an embrace, tucking his head under his chin. “I am not Samwise. Take that back,” he huffed.

“Fine. I had another one teed up about a Gryffindor coming out as a Hufflepuff, is that better?” Quentin retorted. Everything felt better, safer, with Eliot’s arms around him, as he relaxed into their easy banter.

“Is this some sort of fanfiction you’re working on? _Nerd,”_ Eliot sneered playfully, giving him a squeeze.

“You’d be begging to read it,” Quentin teased, then frowned. “I know it must seem crazy--”

“Don’t use the c-word,” Eliot said reflexively. “No, I know what you mean, Quentin. I want it too.”

“You do?” Quentin asked, looking up at him, surprised. 

“I mean, no toilets, no clubs, no yoga studios, what’s not to love?” 

“We should do yoga. Your hip--”

“I know, it’s like, getting me like right _here?”_ Eliot said, digging his knuckles into a spot. “We totally should, I’ll figure out some kind of schedule for that.”

“Okay.”

“Quentin.”

“Right! Sorry. Wait, wasn’t it your turn?”

“Shit, I wasn’t hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

“Eliot.”

“Okay, fine, look. I love it here,” Eliot confessed, stepping back with his arms draped on Quentin’s shoulders. “It’s insane. It’s completely and utterly insane. There’s Ari, obviously, but I love this whole fucking _town,_ I love bartending at the tavern, and Mama, and even doing this fucking puzzle. No, that’s a lie. I hate the fucking puzzle. But everything else is like-- some kind of Fillorian supernerd wet dream-- no offense-- and I fucking _love_ it and I have no idea _why._ Except that it’s like, all of the good parts of Fillory with none of the headaches.”

 _“Right?_ I know! I sometimes wonder if Ember is on walkabout or something. Why is everything not constantly shit?”

“Or it’s Umber, keeping it in balance? We’ve never lived here with both of them. I don’t know,” Eliot shrugged. “I’m not questioning it.”

“Agreed.”

“But I totally get why _you’d_ want to stay here,” Eliot continued, pulling him back into a hug. “You, of all people, the _actual_ Fillorian supernerd, shouldn’t have to apologize for that. None of us should, we want what we want. You know what I mean, we both came out. I mean, I did...”

“I did too, in undergrad. Never quite felt like I should stop apologizing, though.”

“Journey of a thousand miles, and all that,” Eliot said. “But, look, let’s just _both_ agree to stop apologizing for loving this place. I got bitch-slapped by Mama this morning--”

“Oh shit,” Quentin said, pulling back to look at the taller man with wide eyes.

“Yes, well, apparently I needed a good bitch-slapping, and she’s the best bitch for it,” Eliot chuckled. “But I came to my senses. I’m not going to be here halfway, even with the… quest and all that. _Carpe diem, bitches!”_  he sang out to the sky, and grinned. “I might not get to keep it, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to lick the hell out of this ice cream till it melts. Metaphorically speaking, of course,” he added with a smirk, “don’t get any ideas.” 

“Good, that’s-- good," Quentin grinned, surprised at this sudden turnaround. Perhaps more of this was going to work out than he thought. But then the joke caught up to him and he lowered his head back on Eliot's chest again to hide his reddening face.  "And um, speaking of that, um-- I just?-- I’m sorry I kissed you."

“I’m not,” Eliot said simply, and he looked up as he heard Arielle making her way around the house again. He gave Quentin a final squeeze as he let go of him and stepped back. 

“Hey-- um, hey,” Quentin said to Arielle, as she came around the corner and took her spot in their strange triangle. “How are you feeling?”

“Pregnant. So, what did I miss?” Arielle said, looking from one man to the other.

“Nothing,” Eliot shrugged, picking at a fingernail. “We were waiting for you.”

“Are you _kidding_ me? You guys are useless.”

“Well, start then,” Eliot said.

“Okay, _fine._ I guess I’m the one with the baby,” Arielle huffed. “Okay, so. Baby. Baby is happening. And I for one am really happy about it, and totally fucking scared. And also it just caught me off guard? It was something I was like, waiting to _start_ wanting, if that makes any sense. So last night, Baby and I took our first walk together, and we got some stuff straight. I _do_ want to be his mom. Or her mom. And I told her, I’m probably going to suck at it, and make all kinds of mistakes, but I’ve got backup. I have you, Q,” she said, taking his hand, “and Eliot,” she added, taking his. “So I told her, as long as she has you two, she’s going to be just fine.” 

 _“[Go on and kiss de girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=axZ6mG__ZqU&t=01m05s),” _ Eliot sang softly.

“He’s been holding that in since we picked _Little Mermaid,_ you realize,” Quentin smirked, and leaned forward to kiss her. 

Arielle turned to give him her cheek. “Morning breath, boo,” she murmured. “I spent the night on a rock.”

“Understood,” Quentin murmured back, and took the opportunity to kiss her jaw and neck as well.

“Kisses aside,” Arielle giggled, “I did forget to warn him what huge idiots you are, and how you never talk anything out, but he just got a front-row seat. You hear that, Baby?” she said to her abdomen, “Your two dads are stone-cold idjits, like Sister Shenna would have said.”

“Sister? I thought she was your aunt,” Eliot frowned. 

“Two...dads?” Quentin asked slowly.

“Oh, right, that’s the other thing--” Arielle began.

“Wait.” Quentin leaned into her and said in a low tone, which was pointless with Eliot a foot away, “That was going to be _my_ other thing. I mean, I hadn’t-- But yeah, the thing I was picturing was _essentially_ that, I just didn’t know if-- I mean, that’s _okay_ with you?”

Arielle nodded vigorously with a wide grin and squeezed his hand. “Wait, what was your first thing?” she frowned.

But Quentin was focused on Eliot. His heart was thumping fast again. There was every chance Eliot was going to freak out and storm off into the house and they'd start this whole cycle all over again. He tried to sound extra gentle. “Okay, El, so--”

“I’m Pop,” Eliot said softly. “For every second I can be. If you’ll have me.” He rocked his ankle nervously, looking at Quentin with eyes sparkling with emotion-- excitement, hope, love. They also began to shine a bit with tears. 

Quentin launched himself at Eliot, and hugged him like the day he’d come running through the Cottage door, like the day they realized they had magic here, like they always did when they were together and happy.

“I’m sorry, boo, I already asked him,” Arielle said. “It’s just-- you do everything together. _We_ do. So we do this together too. I mean, I _was_ going to ask you, properly,” she added with a laugh, “but it seems like we have a yes from Dad.”

“I mean, are you _sure?”_ Quentin pulled back to look into Eliot’s eyes again. 

 _“Very_ sure,” Eliot said seriously. “You _have_ to be Dad, otherwise it would be _way_ too weird.” 

“Eliot.”

“We all scream for ice cream, Q,” Eliot said simply, and kissed his forehead. Quentin felt a teardrop hit his hairline. His own eyes pricked. “And the name is Coldwater-Waugh,” Eliot added, his lips buzzing on Quentin’s skin. “You get to pick the first and middle.”

“Coldwater-Waugh-- oh! That’s--” Quentin said as they slipped out of their hug into a handhold. Arielle’s hand found its way into Quentin’s again. 

“So English, I know,” Eliot agreed with a grin, brushing a tear from his cheek and taking Arielle’s other hand, completing the circle. “That’s what I said. Fit for a king. We already have a family motto.”

“Oh god, let’s hope he’s not a king,” Quentin muttered. “But no, it reminded me of something-- we can’t be the Coldwater-Waughs, but--”

“I don’t see why we can’t call ourselves whatever we want,” Arielle declared. “Who would care? We make our own rules. And if you’re the two fathers, then that should be his name. Or her name.”

“His,” Eliot said. “Mama says it’s going to be a boy.”

Quentin wasn’t listening. He was recalibrating. The variables had shifted. He let go of their hands to run his hands through his hair and retie it.

 _“Really?!”_ Arielle squealed, taking Mama’s pronouncement as gospel. “Can his first name be Queliot, then?”

“If only I had your skills in martial arts,” Eliot mused dryly. “Now, look, we’ve left Q bubbling over.”

Quentin was scanning the ground and muttering to himself. “I mean I guess you’re right about no one caring, we’re not registered citizens with legal names or anything, not in this era of Fillory, but it’s really only one name that would change, and then we’d make it part of the naming ceremony for-- Wait.” he said, putting up his hands and looking at them. “I need to stay on track here. It’s why I reached out to Rand this morning, actually. And now, okay, wow, this feels super awkward because we just-- I mean now I guess we’re all like, a _family_ now-- and shit, El, this is the worst time to like, exclude you? Or anything. But I, um--”

Eliot let go of Arielle’s hand to grab her arm lightly but defensively. “Brace yourself, Princess, one of us is going to get kissed any second,” he said in a hushed tone. 

“If he comes for you, I’ll throw myself in front,” Arielle whispered.

“Same,” Eliot whispered back.

“Will you both please shut the fuck up? I have a _point,”_ Quentin said exasperatedly. “I happened to get into a discussion with Rand this morning, kind of a tangent--”

“I can’t imagine,” Eliot muttered.

Quentin rolled his eyes. Rand was the one who brought it up. “Well, now I’m glad I did, _Eliot,_ because I _happened_ to learn that despite all the weird Fillorian customs-- which only rich assholes and royalty do, really, but it’s on the books-- the way it works means that _you guys_ can’t, because she can’t have two husbands and you’ve already got a wife, but then he said _we_ could, that’s what made me remember, because that’s _actually_ Coldwater-Waugh, but like, I don’t know if it counts, like legally or even god-rules or whatever-- if that even still applies-- but if we did and you leave and I’m stuck in the past-- but that also means I’d be dead in the future? Or if you go too far back I might be in _your_ future? And then there’s the persistence spell and all that--” He shook his head to try to shake off all the variables that whirled around him, it was too much. “Whatever, the point is, we can still use the name for the baby, like Ari said, who cares? But you don’t want to get stuck out there _never_ getting to have a decent husband because of me, so there’s really just the first option left, as far as the marriage part.”

“The what part now?” Arielle said.

“Husband?” Eliot asked.

“No, _not_ husband, Jesus, El, keep up,” Quentin muttered, and he dropped to one knee, taking both of Arielle’s hands in his. “Ari, I love you so much. And I know it’s a lot? With the baby too. But just the fact that you _understood_ the second thing-- that just--” his eyes began to well up with tears, “it just underscores how right this is. And I don’t have a ring, but we’ll fix that? And you can be Coldwater-Waugh or any name you want if you will please,” he took a deep breath and they smiled at each other, Quentin’s tears beginning to tip over, and Arielle looking a bit struck, “do me the honor of marrying me?”

And Arielle, her eyes now also brimming with tears, let go of his hands to turn quickly around and throw up.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Eliot said frantically to Quentin, rubbing her back in hurried circles. “She’s been doing this all morning, it’s not because of this. You were doing _great,_ you _were._ It was really--” he winced while Arielle gave a loud heave, “romantic.”

The two men caught eyes-- _one more absurdity in our totally fucked-up lives--_ and burst out laughing. Arielle, still bent over, punched Eliot in the hip.  

“Ow! Don’t punch me, punch him! Or say yes, he’s still waiting, sweetie.”

Arielle stood and turned around, her face red but excited. She held up her hands. “Okay, freeze, just like this. When I say yes I want to kiss you and my mouth is all gross. Two minutes,” she said, and made quickly for the house.

Quentin was left on one knee with Eliot towering above him.

“I think you can stand up until she gets back, baby. This ground is hard on the knees, as I recall,” Eliot said dryly. He waved a hand over the mess Arielle had left and it vanished, a trick Quentin remembered from Sunday mornings at the Physical Kid’s Cottage. 

Quentin blushed, but he stood, wiping his tears off on his sleeve. “She’s-- gonna say yes?” he said, part in question, part in wonder.

“Apparently so. Though I don’t think I should congratulate you until the ritual is complete, _Daddy.”_  

“Feel good to say that for once?” Quentin teased. 

“We’re going to have to retire _baby boy_ as well, now that you have one,” Eliot pointed out.

 _“We_ have one. You’re in this too, now. Unless you’re already changing your mind about that.”

“Nope,” Eliot said confidently. “I’m not entirely sure about Pop, though. Maybe Papa? Or you know how it is with babies, they make up their own thing, usually something insane they have to explain to outsiders for the rest of their lives.” 

“I _don’t_ know. How it is with babies? Really like, at all,” Quentin shrugged, looking back down at his foot, drawing squares in the dirt.

“No? No babysitting or anything?”

“Only when I tagged along with Julia. And I’m fucking terrified. Especially of pre-industrial home births,” Quentin admitted.

“Well, it’s a good thing you have backup, then. Nalie’s sister can midwife, and Papa is great with babies,” Eliot said sweetly, holding out a hand and wiggling his fingers.

Quentin reached out and hung his fingertips off of them by the first knuckles. It was the shallowest of touches but their fingers were tight, clinging onto each other. “Of course you are,” he chuckled, shaking his head. 

“You’re doing the right thing, Q,” Eliot said softly. “You found someone good for you this time.”

Quentin thought of Alice, and then of Eliot, trying to find something to wear for Mike. “We aren’t very good at that, are we?”

“Not usually,” Eliot agreed, his voice thick. “Ari’s one in a million.”

Quentin felt his throat clench but before he could answer, they heard a noise from the house and both looked over. Arielle, now in a clean dress, came out of the side door with Rand, leaving it swinging open as they each held two mugs of tea. Eliot waved it closed.

“I hear a toast is in order,” Rand said, handing Quentin a mug.

“Wait, Rand! I haven’t finished it yet!” Arielle exclaimed. She handed her two mugs to Eliot and took her previous spot. “Kneel, Coldwater,” she hissed at him.

“Oh! Right!” Quentin said, handing his mug back to Rand and dropping to one knee. “Should I ask again, or--”

“Yes I will yes I will yes,” she cried, and flung her arms around his neck and kissed him, hard, then put kisses all over his face.

“Okay, okay,” Quentin laughed under the onslaught. “I mean, thanks, and good, thank god, but-- can I stand up now?” 

“Told you,” Eliot smirked as the mugs were all distributed again. “And also, hashtag unexpected [Joyce](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/11951-i-was-a-flower-of-the-mountain-yes-when-i), that was weird.” 

Quentin rolled his eyes-- unknown to everyone else, it was a reference to another random cute boy of Eliot’s who had gotten him to go to a _Ulysses_ book club for two whole weeks, and Quentin thought it was the perfect example of instant karma-- and he grinned as he rose and slipped an arm around Arielle’s waist. 

“To Team Queliot,” Rand said, lifting his mug. “May the gods leave you all the hell alone.”

“Amen, Father, but we’re the _Coldwater-Waughs_ now, if you please,” Eliot said grandly, and Arielle and Quentin giggled in agreement and they all clunked their wooden mugs together and drank. “Collectively, that is. Or perhaps the Coldwaters-Waugh?” Eliot mused, and Quentin shot tea through his nose. 

“Not the first time that’s happened today,” Eliot said cryptically, cleaning Quentin’s shirt with a tut. “So... you brought our priest,” he continued, taking Rand’s hand and leading him-- and by extension the whole group-- to sit on the benches by the cold fire pit, “but you do realize I have to plan a wedding, right?” Eliot mused. “Tell me aren’t going to just like, grab that ribbon from the bowl and do it now, or anything?”

Quentin was snuggling Arielle back against his chest. She turned and they shared a look. “I mean--” he began.

“--he will never let it go--” Arielle agreed.

“--and would probably make us do a second wedding anyway,” Quentin finished. “Is it okay if we--”

“Yeah, I’m not going anywhere,” Arielle said, and turned back to Eliot. “Green,” she smirked.

Rand turned to look at Eliot in surprise. 

“She’s a minx, ignore her,” Eliot said with a wave. “When are you going to be back, Father?” 

“A month, but I’ll just be passing through for the night and won’t have time to officiate. But I’m back again two months later for Nalie and Hund’s naming ceremony. I could extend that for a wedding, too. Is that enough time?” Rand offered.

“I think I can manage,” Eliot shrugged. “Might need your help securing us a nice dress from Bigger Town, though. And a suit for Q, you never had a proper one, even at White-- Well, anyway. Hund’s fabric selection is a joke and besides alterations, I can barely sew curtains. And our Princess Arielle has to be prettier than all the other Disney Princesses. Which you would be in a potato sack, my dear,” he said as he bowed his head to her as she giggled in delight, “but I won’t let you look less than perfect.”

“My dress from _If I Never Knew You_ is white, except the trim,” she pointed out. She’d saved up and ordered it special, and Rand had brought it with him when he arrived yesterday.

“And you just slept in it, in the woods. Quentin can get the stains out and mend it, but, well, not to be indelicate, dear, but in three months it won’t fit. We’ll need an empire waist for the baby bump. Plus it’s calf-length, and we’re not doing [ Natalie Portman cosplay ](https://media1.popsugar-assets.com/files/thumbor/GD11DJ2W6wYZSMwdz2prcFfQG_I/fit-in/1024x1024/filters:format_auto-!!-:strip_icc-!!-/2012/08/32/2/192/1922398/7cc83c323a9566cb_FFN_jessicasbabyshower_50850968/i/Natalie-Portman-wore-Rodarte-dress-her-wedding.jpg). Margo would reach across time to wring my neck. Although maybe the flower crown…”  

Quentin flashed on a younger Eliot, sitting in the throne room of Whitespire, planning his wedding to Idri and threatening Quentin’s life if he didn’t show. _I hope this wedding actually happens,_ he thought with a moment of panic, but he was used to those. Still, it wouldn’t help to let Eliot get too carried away, or he would become Bridesmaidzilla. “Oh god, what have I unleashed?” he grumbled instead.

“Hush, you,” Eliot said. “You’re next. The _real_ question is, do we combine the wedding with the baby shower so people only have to give one gift, or do we separate them and get twice the haul? Ooh and Ari, when I went to a baby shower for a Brakebills grad they served these cute little petit fours with tiny baby booties on them in icing, but then if you’re going to do the wedding cake too--”

Quentin was far more interested in the topic of cake, though it made his stomach finally give a rumble, and he tried to snuggle with Arielle on the bench as they usually did, but she was bolting to the other side of the house again, mumbling apologies. Quentin stood to follow her but she waved at him to stay. 

“Oh, right, no food talk until the puking stops. Need to remember that,” Eliot muttered.

“Hey, guys, listen,” Rand said seriously. “I’m saying this now not just as your friend, and whatever, but as your priest, okay? No sides, no agenda. I’m here equally for both of you, and I want you to be honest. Are you good? You two?”

Eliot leaned back with his hand on the bench and sized Quentin up. “We know the plan for the quest. And for what we’re going to do until then, ice cream, et cetera,” he said with a wave of his hand. “And I for one don’t want to think about it anymore. Q?”

“I’m down with that.” After the night Quentin had, and the day so far, it was a relief to let Eliot take charge again.

“Good. So that’s settled,” Eliot declared. “And now that we’re _My Two Dads,_ we’re going to need to work on baby-proofing this place. Probably need to more safely store the tiles, for starters. And we can watch him while Ari works, though our schedule will probably need to change.”

“Oh yeah, right, that’s-- yeah.” There was so much Quentin hadn’t even begun to think about. _Thank god for Papa,_ he thought, and a thrill ran up his middle and right into his heart. How far they had come since he burst through the trees at Brakebills to find Eliot posing on the sign, it was absolutely surreal. “And, um, speaking of that, Team Leader?” he smiled sheepishly. “I might need some time off. From the puzzle? When the baby comes.”

“Paternity leave granted, of course, for both of us. And today as well, fuck it,” Eliot said with a more royal wave of his hand than usual. “See, _my_ dictatorship is benevolent,” he added with a grin, reviving a long-standing argument about whether such a thing could exist, “with a _very_ progressive agenda.”

“We were already going to take today off,” Quentin pointed out.

“It’s like I’m at a church council meeting,” Rand said. “I was hoping you would talk about how you _feel.”_

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t be ridiculous,” Eliot scoffed. “We don’t do that.”

“Not unless we absolutely have to,” Quentin agreed, and stood. “And I’m pretty sure we’ve used up our allotment in the last twenty-four hours. Did _anybody_ actually sleep?”

Rand and Eliot shared a guilty look. “Not even the sheep,” Eliot said with a grin. 

“Okay, I _really_ don’t want to know what _that_ means,” Quentin said, rolling his eyes, “but I didn’t get any sleep either. Maybe we should all just go back to bed. Or eat first? Is there any of that--”

“Ari’s quiche? Yeah, about two helpings, in the icebox,” Eliot said. 

“Two servings?” Rand asked hopefully. 

“C'mon in, Father, let me buy you breakfast,” Quentin said, parting the clothes on the line again.

“Bring it out here for me to zap it,” Eliot called after them. “The smell will linger if I do it inside, and make Ari sick.” 

An hour later they were all four asleep, two sets of spoons in two drawers, and they slept until long after the suns were down, and entirely missed the lunch they’d planned for Rand.

 

*

And that was the story-- in significantly less detail, with some secrets kept forever, and some parts filled in later by Mama--  that Quentin and Eliot told Teddy in a laughing, back-tracking ramble after dinner one night when he was a teenager, of how Movie Night began, and how _Team Queliot_ became the _Coldwater-Waughs._

His two fathers were Magicians, and Kings (though he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone that, _that_ was a _Super-Swear_ Pinkie Swear), and they were going to save the world by solving the puzzle, but as Teddy got older he came to think the single best thing about them was how they could take whatever life threw at them and make a home.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, y'all! I can't tell you how glad I am to post this, I have pushed and pulled and prodded and picked at these Movie Night chapters for weeks now, and I finally, finally, have gotten us through this night! :) :) 
> 
> Doing so taught me a lot, and I realized ways I could improve how I write. So if you didn't see the update I posted this weekend, here's the 
> 
> ****NEWSFLASHHHH***** (breaking news music here)
> 
> I updated and reworked ALL of the chapters this week!!! You don't _have_ to reread it, no major plot points changed and most of the text is the same, so the story is how you remember it, and you can proceed confidently. But if you've been wanting to binge it after weekly bites for so long, now is a great time! And you will be rewarded by new little bits in nearly every chapter that add color and background to some of the characters, and hopefully a smoother and more satisfying read. 
> 
> As usual, I love you all and can't wait to hear from you in our Village Square down in the comments! 
> 
> So far the next set of chapters is funny and fluffy and silly and sometimes serious (but not angsty-- yet, but I'm still writing and you know how I get, so we'll see, lol) and will introduce three new characters (!) and take us through the wedding.
> 
> One more thing, I personally don't have a problem with Natalie Portman's wedding dress-- she looks lovely and happy-- but let's face it, Margo would burn it. And then stab the ashes a few times. As I'm sure she ranted at Eliot while she waggled the magazine in his face in disgust, which is why he thought of it. 
> 
> See you Monday for _Pretty Is As Pretty Does_!  
> <3,  
> Trillian


	31. Pretty Is As Pretty Does

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dog dares to dream.

“Okay, Wren, this is it,” he said, trying to psych himself up. “Just go in there. Just… walk right in.”

The golden retriever was sitting in front of the tavern, just far enough away that it was plausible he was just passing by. The stones were hot on his paws and his butt, and he wanted to pant to cool off, but he wouldn’t let himself, it was too undignified. More than that, he wanted a shake, to calm his nerves. But that would dismantle his carefully coiffed fur and muss his clothes, and that would never do. Not today. 

“Okay. Okay. You can do this,” the dog muttered under his breath. 

Because today, what he wanted more than anything in the world was for Eliot to approve.

He’d known Eliot all his life, though not well. His dad, Wicklet, had brought his litter to visit the Mosaic many times as they were growing up, but Quentin was more his dad’s friend than Eliot was, and always played with them more. Eliot was standoffish, but nice, and he smelled like the kind of honest that isn’t really  _all_ that honest but you could trust him anyway if you were friends. 

And sandalwood. Or something that Eliot called sandalwood, though he said it wasn’t, really. It was the one time they had talked alone when Wren was growing up.

Eliot had been acting loose that day-- Wren now knew enough about the world to understand that he had been drunk--  and had brought several bottles, a satchel, and a mirror to the bigger outdoor table. 

Wren had been sitting in its shade, away from where his brothers and sister were playing fetch with Quentin. He didn’t understand them well and they seemed to understand him less. He was content to enjoy the shade and bite at his claws to trim them.

“Hell-o, little doggie,” Eliot said with a lilt as he dropped the items onto the table and fell into a seat.  _“How much is that doggie in the window?”_ he sang, and giggled. “I wonder if in Fillory that’s a song from the red-light district? Now, don’t go selling your body, little doggie, your father would never approve.”

“My father says we can be whatever we want,” Wren said, stunned that Eliot was talking to him at all.

“Well, yes, but not that, I’m sure. Although, who knows? Some people like it.” He giggled loosely again as he arranged the objects on the table. “I’ve certainly  _given_ it away for less than it’s worth. Sold a lifetime of it for a knife, once. That was stupid. Quit chewing your nails, it’s gross.”

“There’s… no other way for me to do it,” Wren pointed out. 

“Oh, right, the thumb thing. That sucks.”

“I mean, not everyone needs thumbs, you know,” Wren said, amazed to hear a bit of defiance in his own voice. But he was eight months old, after all, and many things came out that way whether he wanted them to, or not.

“Perhaps, but they’re useful for handjobs,” Eliot giggled. “And in your line of work…”

“Mr. Waugh, I’m not going to be-- one of those!” Wren said, lowering his snout and covering it with a paw.

“Gigolo is the word you’re looking for, I think. And anyway, not looking like that, you’re not,” Eliot noted, as he pulled more items out of the satchel.

Wren sat up to peer over the table. “Looking like--” 

“You are very pretty,” Eliot reassured him, “for a dog. I suppose. I don’t know. From a human’s perspective you look very much like… a dog should look. What do I know?”

Quentin came around the front of the house. Quentin was nice, sweet and funny like Wren's dad, and with head-fur like his family, long and straight. He smelled like rainwater and freshly chopped wood. Quentin had been Eliot's boyfriend since Wren was little, about four months.

"El, where did we put the dog bowls? Everyone's thirsty." Quentin put his hands on Eliot's shoulders and squeezed, and kissed his head as he leaned against his back.

"Mmm, now everyone is," Eliot purred.

"El-i-ot," Quentin sing-songed a warning,  _behave._

"Mmm, don't play with me when I've been drinking and we have company, it's not fair. Q, this is my friend, Wren."

"Yeah, um, we've met? Like, a lot?" Quentin laughed.

"Well,  _we_  haven't. Until now." Eliot turned his head to kiss Quentin's hand on his shoulder. "Dog bowls are in the crate in the back corner, in The Pile. It's all the crap we don't have a place for," he explained to the dog. 

"Are they clean?"

"Yeah? I spelled them after they last came over, but did they get yucky sitting there? No idea."

"Thanks," Quentin said, and made to leave.

"Baby boy, stop!" Eliot whined. "You can't just come over here and rub on me and not give me sugar." He pursed his lips into the air.

"Oh for god's sake, sober up," Quentin laughed as he gave him a quick kiss. "It's like, noon."

"Day off! Day off! Day off!" Eliot chanted, and returned to his bottles as Quentin went into the hut.

Wren sniffed at the array of items. “What are you doing?”

“Ah, see, now, I was saying you needed to get tarted up, this is me, getting tarted up. Or trying to.  _Experimenting,”_ Eliot said in a loud whisper. He sighed. “I miss YouTube.”

“What’s yootoob?”

“A magical box that tells you what does what. Now, see these bottles here? I sent off for them from Town. As far as I can tell, this one,” he pointed at the first bottle in the array, “should be like a moisturizer. To make my skin soft. If it works, I can start shaving off this scruff here, my camouflage. Nevermind, you don’t have to deal with that. But this one…” he reached for a taller bottle from the back and opened it, letting Wren sniff its contents,  _“might_ just be like conditioner, and that makes my hair soft, and you’ve got plenty of that.”

“I don’t think that will make your hair soft,” Wren said, wrinkling his snout. “It smells like the old tanner’s shop.”

“Could it be used to soften the leather?” Eliot frowned at the bottle, and sniffed it.

“I think maybe it’s a soap. I can smell lye, and that tanner smell.”

“Well, shit,” Eliot sighed and slumped back in his chair. “I was looking forward to that one the most. The humidity here is insane.”

“What do the other ones do?” Wren asked. There were more than just bottles, but also small boxes and pencils, like the ones that human kids used in school, but no paper. 

“Make me pretty. Most of them wouldn’t be useful to you.” He giggled again. “And if I tried, would it be animal testing?”

“Isn’t pretty something you say about girls? It’s handsome for boys,” Wren pointed out.

“Don’t be so square,” Eliot said with a dismissive wave. “Pretty is as pretty does. And you can be both, at the same time.”

Wren cocked his head.

“Look, it’s like, if a man’s handsome he makes you want to lean in close to him, and if he’s pretty you want to lean back and look at him,” Eliot said.

Wren considered this. “Handsome makes you want to smell him, and pretty makes you want to lick him.”

Eliot cackled with laughter. “You learn well, young Padawan.” He wiped away a tear. “Now, speaking of smells, this one--” He reached for another bottle, uncorked it, and sniffed at it. “Yes, yes, this is good, smell this.” He wafted the bottle under Wren’s nose, who sneezed.

“Oh, sorry, might be a bit strong for you, right from the bottle.”

Wren sneezed again. “What is that? It was too much, yes, but I liked it.”

“I have no idea. I first smelled it on Lunk, but he wore too much of it, he reeked. But then Ari left her scarf here that still had a bit of it and I realized it smelled sort of like sandalwood. She helped me track it down in Town. Which surprised me, because she said she couldn't stand it. That relationship cannot be long for this world. He's  _got_  to be cheating on her, [he's got Bette Davis eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPOIS5taqA8)," Eliot sang, and giggled again. "God knows Bambi would have totally fucked him the first week we were here." He looked sad, suddenly. “I miss her.”

Wren was stunned. Mr. Waugh was talking to him like he was a grown-up. That last bit was  _gossip._ About  _another grown-up._ And  _sex._ No one had ever talked to him like that before. 

More importantly, no grown-up had ever talked about their feelings like that to him before. His parents were full of love for him and his litter, of course, but this was different. This was like he was supposed to  _say_ something, cheer him up. He wanted to, he didn’t like to see this pretty man look sad. It was like when the clouds covered up both suns at the same time.

“I bet she misses you a whole bunch too, Mr. Waugh,” he said, because it had to be true. Anyone who was friends with Eliot Waugh must miss him when he was away, he was  _amazing._  

“I certainly fucking hope so.” Eliot considered him seriously. “You’re a good dog. What’s your name? Sorry, you all look alike, which is a totally speciest thing to say, but I’m lit like a candle, so humor me.”

“Wren, sir.”

“No more  _sir,_ Wren, or  _Mr. Waugh._ Call me Eliot.” The human put out a hand and the dog put his paw in it for a shake.

“My dad won’t let me, Mr. Waugh. ‘S not polite.”

“Rules,  _pfft!”_ Eliot sneered. 

“Yeah, rules,  _pfft!”_ Wren agreed, and they belly laughed together. 

Eliot spent the rest of the afternoon  _testing products_ and explaining them to Wren. He lined his eyes and styled his hair, and they had a lengthy discussion of human versus dog nail grooming.

And that was it. He had only ever seen Eliot in passing since, and even during visits to the Mosaic he never found Eliot alone again.

But he would today. Because today Eliot was inside that tavern, just starting his shift. Wren, still fighting the urge to shake, began to pace.

 

*

Eliot first just got a glimpse of color, through the window. Something moved in the Square.

Then he saw it again, moving the other direction.

He was busying himself at the shelves behind the bar, organizing the bottles for the night. None of his spells to keep the labels he’d made stuck onto the bottles-- _Essentially Moonshine, Almost Gin, Tastes Like Licorice, It’s Green--_ ever seemed to work, and neither did paste. “I get it, fine, you don’t like being labeled,” Eliot muttered, and then turned around at the sound of an animal scrambling onto one of the wide barstools provided for them. “What can I get--  _oh sweet_[ _Chi-Chi Rodriguez_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHAXgogNmKM) _.”_

Sitting at the barstool was certainly the strangest sight he’d seen yet in Fillory. One of Wick’s pups-- _the one with the bird name,_ Eliot thought, but couldn’t come up with it-- was sitting at the bar. 

His fur was tipped in mud-covered ringlets everywhere it was long enough. Mud pushed the smooth fur of the retriever’s head up into a fluffy mess. Around his eyes the fur was smudged black, making him look like a raccoon. Around his shoulders hung something that looked to Eliot like a tea-towel, which was tied at the neck with a leather thong through holes poked in the fabric.

His paws were on the counter, nails painted red, with dollops of dried red paint on the fur around them. It looked like he had tried to chew the extra paint off, the fur on his toes standing straight up. On one painful looking toe was jammed a ring of some dull metal with red dots painted on it like a row of gems.

“I’ve made myself pretty, Mr. Waugh-- Eliot,” the dog said, clearly mustering all of his bravery to say it.

Eliot stopped dead. This is why he knew the dog’s name--  _Wren,_ he thought suddenly-- it was the day his first shipment of product came in from Town. “Oh, that’s-- oh. Well.”  _Oh shit what have I done?_

“I want to be what you are, Mr.-- Eliot. _Mr. Eliot,”_ he said with more confidence, clearly settling on this as an appropriate bridge. 

“And what... do you think I am?” Eliot said slowly, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer if this was the result.

“Dad says you’re a  _sophisticate,_ and that’s what I want to be, a sophisticate. Like you,” he added, as if he were afraid he hadn’t made that clear.

“I see… Look, can I just--” he motioned to Wren’s paw and Wren held it up. Eliot worked the metal band off. “I’m sorry, that just looked like it hurt.”

“Did, a bit. Charcoal keeps getting in my eyes, too,” Wren confessed. “But we suffer for beauty, right?”

“Oh god, did I say that? I probably did,” Eliot sighed. “But why-- I mean what-- I have so many questions I don’t know where to start. Can I get you something? Are you old enough to drink, now? Or can I get you a bowl of water?”

“I’m old enough,” Wren sniffed. “I just turned [one and a half ](https://img.webmd.com/dtmcms/live/webmd/consumer_assets/site_images/article_thumbnails/reference_guide/how_calculate_dogs_age_in_years/dog_age_05.jpg). I’ll have a [Last Word](https://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2007/10/cocktails-the-last-word.html), please.”

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? It’s only five in the afternoon.”

“You said that’s the cocktail hour, I remember, that’s why I came right at five,” Wren said. “I came in with my dad looking for Quentin one night and you were making them and said that even in Fillory you can have the Last Word.”

“You remember far more about what I’ve said than I do,” Eliot muttered, picking up  _It’s Green_  and  _Almost Gin_  and setting about mixing the cocktail.

“I have an excellent memory, Miss Nalie said I was the best dog for memorizing that she’d ever taught. I can keep lists and lists of things in my head. And I’m a good reader, too, and I remember everything I read. And Miss Nalie said I was very  _detail-oriented,_ and that is a  _universal_ skill for any job,” Wren finished proudly, lifting his snout and tossing his ears, “whether you have thumbs or not.” 

“And you have no shortage of ego,” Eliot noted, giving the drink a shake. “A quality most treasured in the sophisticate community, it should be said,” he added, as he poured it into a shallow bowl. “Here. Sips, now. That’s how you drink a cocktail, you sip it. Or you know, lap at it. Gently.”

Wren dutifully dipped his tongue in the drink and sighed happily. “That’s amazing, Mr. Eliot. I am never going to drink anything but this.”

“Ah ah ah,” Eliot admonished. “That’s not very  _sophisticated._ You need to have  _several_ favorite cocktails, you never know what will be available.”

“That’s why I’m here, Mr. Eliot. I want to be your apprentice. I want to learn how to be a sophisticate, from you.”

“That’s not-- that’s not a thing,” Eliot said, although  _RuPaul’s Drag Race_ popped into his head. 

“Well, how did you do it?”

Eliot straightened and rolled his shoulders. “By myself. Becoming me was the greatest… well, let’s just say I remade myself.”

“What were you before?”

“A farm boy, like you, I guess,” Eliot shrugged. It hadn’t been a secret in years, and in fact playing the rich playboy only made him stand out more, which seemed unwise as they didn’t want to draw attention to their presence in Fillory. Being at least an  _ex-_ farm boy smoothed relations with his neighbors, too, as it proved he was one of them. 

“Well, that’s what I want to do! Remake myself!” Wren whined. “And if you just  _made_ it happen, without a master to apprentice to, then think of how good you must be! You could share it all with me.”

Eliot stared into Wren’s pleading eyes, but his mind was back on the farm. He was in his empty room, his brothers outside, the sound of a tractor buzzing in the background, the late afternoon sun streaming in through the homemade curtains. He was standing in front of a mirror wearing his tightest, darkest jeans, the shirt with the least amount of plaid, its pearl snaps open down to his solar plexus, and his Sunday boots. His hair held copious amounts of gel. His eyes were unlined and his lips unglossed because he didn’t dare get caught with that on at home, he’d do it in the parking lot of the bar when he got there. In his hand he held a scarf that one of his father’s barfly girlfriends had left in the car, and he was wondering how exactly one ties an ascot, and if that would be too gay even for the gay bar, which was, after all, still in Indiana.

“Finish your drink,” Eliot said to Wren. “We’re going to Queer Eye this ratchet mess you’ve got going. Mama!” he called into the kitchen. “I’m all set up out here, but I’m going down to the river with-- my mini me, I guess. Be back in a half hour or so. If Nalie’s sister shows up, send her down. Oh, wait, Rand left-- yes, here it is,” he said, pulling a small bag from under the bar. He opened it and pulled out a wooden brush with stiff bristles. He was torn about giving it away, though he knew Rand would be the first to offer it to a parishioner in need. He could just clean it and return it, of course, but he couldn’t let go of the Earth-centric notion that once you’d used a brush on a dog, no human would ever want to use it again. “When I send his bag in the post I’ll tell him to get a new one,” he said. “C’mon, Wren, we’re going to have a [ _Steel Magnolia’s_](https://hellogiggles.com/news/queer-eye-jonathan-quotes-season-2/) moment.”

 

*****

Jenna disembarked from the carriage and waited for the driver to unload her many bags. She looked around the Square that her sister Nalie had told her about in letters. Nalie had been right about the paving, it made the little village feel more important, more Eastern Fillory. Her eyes caught the shop sign of the tailor’s, but it was closed and looked empty. Still, it made her tense, and her muscles already ached from sitting so long. The bags meant the carriage hadn’t had much leg room even for someone short like her. She stretched out her back by touching her toes.

“Jenna?” a voice said, and a tall Fillorian woman came out of the tavern. 

Jenna straightened up quickly and nodded in response.  

“Well, glad you made it safe, honey,” the woman said warmly, putting out her hand. “I’m Kasia, around here they call me Mama. Nice to meet you finally.” Mama nodded at the carriage driver, who went into the tavern.

“Oh, Mama! Nice to meet you too! Nalie’s told me a lot about you,” Jenna said, accepting the handshake. Mama’s grip was gentle but firm and her eyes sparkled and Jenna liked her immediately.

“Well, I do see how fat those envelopes to you are when she drops them off for the post, so I suppose she’s told you just about everything,” Mama chuckled. “Has she mentioned our boys up t’the Mosaic?”

“Eliot and Quentin, yes. And Arielle, she sounds fun.”

“They all liven up the place, that’s for sure,” Mama agreed. “So Eliot, you may know, works here for me, and he’s going to walk you down to New House so Hund can mind the shop. Gonna need a wagon for all these bags,” Mama noted.

“Yeah, sorry, I um, couldn’t decide what to bring,” Jenna said awkwardly. She hoped this wouldn’t garner too many questions.

Mama looked at her curiously, but let it drop. “Hmm, well. I’ll get the wagon, and you can go find Eliot. He’s gone off down t’the river. Just follow this road here, and at the bottom of the hill it gets close to the water, and there will be a little path to your right. If you see a wagon in the mud, turn back, you’ve gone too far and no one has time for an unexpected Cleve.”

Jenna laughed. Apparently Nalie had not exaggerated about the strange little man and his wagon. “Got it. Are you sure about the bags?”

“Not a whistle to a thistle,” Mama said. “Now I don’t mean to hurry you off but I will need Eliot back here before too awful long so let’s get this show going, yeah?”

 

*****

Once they were at the river, Wren sat and tried very hard not to fidget as Mr. Eliot looked down at him curiously. He may not have impressed the older man with his attempts, but he’d gotten his attention and it seemed to Wren that this apprenticeship was beginning right now, even if it only lasted one day. 

Mr. Eliot frowned at him. “I don’t know if I can help unless I know more about what you’re trying to accomplish, here.” He sat down cross-legged to be eye level with the dog. “But first, I just want you to know, I’ve been where you are. I get it. This,” he waved a hand around the dog. “I know what I wanted out of it. What do you want, really?”

Wren considered this. “I guess I… want to be… I don’t know. I feel  _different,_ different than the people here, different from my litter… Dad always said we could be whatever we wanted, but I don’t think it worked on me like he meant, like it did on the others. Because saying yes to anything means you can say no, too, and it just made me look at everything a dog can do or be around here and hate it  _all.”_

“This I completely understand,” Mr. Eliot reassured him. “[Farm livin’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wzT1kO_-xbQ) was distinctly  _not_  the life for me.”

“But you’re from Somewhere Else, and  _you’re_ different too! You’re not like,  _boring_ like everyone else, you’re  _exciting._ You bring  _life_ wherever you go, and you’re funny, and pretty  _and_ handsome, and witty and smart--”

“Alright, settle down,” Mr. Eliot chuckled. “I won’t deny having a praise kink but I’m on borrowed time, here. The word you’re looking for is  _fabulous.”_   

“But don’t you see,  _you_ being fabulous means that there are  _other_ fabulous people out there and if I could find them and… be one of them, then…” he trailed off.

“Yeah. I know,” Mr. Eliot said kindly. “You wouldn’t feel so different, then.”

Wren ducked his head and nodded. Mr. Eliot was very wise.

“Oh, you precious little bean,” Mr. Eliot sighed. “Sounds like it’s time for you to  _go off and seek your fortune,_ as the saying goes, and I must admit I’m a little jealous. Oh, to be young again and just starting out…”

“How old  _are_ you, Mr. Eliot?” 

“In dog years?” The man did the math. “Three, I guess?”

“Oh yeah, that is a bit old,” Wren said, and felt sad for him.

“Alright, easy there, chicken,” Mr. Eliot admonished. “I’m not  _old_ , I just have reasons to stay. And anyway we’re talking about you. If you want to head out into the world... we’ll have to think about what you can do for work that would keep you around fabulous people. But first, let’s work on your look. Wouldn’t want them to think you just rolled off the hay wagon. Sit up, head up.”

Wren lifted his snout and sat up straight. His heart pounded, and he fought to keep his tail still.

“The first thing is, you need to not copy anyone else. You need to be your authentic self,” Mr. Eliot said.

“Authentic-- but you use a lot of products…” the dog said, confused.

“Yes, well, sometimes your authentic self needs a bit of assistance,” Mr. Eliot admitted. “But my point is, you are trying to copy a human, and you’re a dog. You need to accept the--  _dogness_ of you. Let me take a look at what you have going. Stand and turn, please.”

Wren stood and began a slow turn, hoping the man wouldn’t notice his quivering tail.

“You know, the mud was not a bad idea,” Mr. Eliot mused. “You have some nice curls going here. Did you do all of this yourself?”

“I have a friend,” Wren admitted. “A human, MJ. She helped me put this together.”

“Sounds like a good friend.”

“She wouldn’t come with me,” Wren said resentfully. “To see you. She thinks it’s stupid. Some friend.” He rolled his eyes.

“She thinks it’s stupid, but she took the time to put mud in your fur and what, wrap each lock around her finger until it dried? Back around and sit, please.”

“Yeah. And she took  _forever._ She did my eyes too. Didn’t do a very good job. She just had me close my eyes and rubbed the charcoal on, and it’s a mess, isn’t it? I knew it was a mess,” Wren moaned.

“It’s very… extra,” Mr. Eliot said. “And she painted your nails?” 

 _“I_ did the nails!” Wren exclaimed defensively. “I dipped my paws in paint and then when it dried I cleaned it out of my fur.”

“Very clever. I used to do the same, overpaint and rub the excess off--”

“I know,” Wren interjected. “I remember. You said that at the Mosaic that day.”

“Apparently I forgot to mention that works better on skin than fur,” Eliot noted. “But MJ-- she tied the leather thong, I suppose, since you don’t have thumbs. And made the ring?” Mr. Eliot asked.

Wren nodded. 

“Are you sure she isn’t like, your  _best_ friend?” Mr. Eliot frowned.

“Well, she’s-- she’s  _MJ,_ I don’t know. She used to babysit us, months and months ago. And then we were at school together for a bit, but of course we graduated faster. She’s kind of…  _weird,”_ Wren said disdainfully. “She doesn’t have many human friends. So she’s  _around,_ like, you can always find her in her workshop.” 

“What does she do?

“She wants to be a woodworker,” Wren said, rolling his eyes, “which is dumb. I mean, she’s good at it, I guess, but it’s not like she can actually  _get_ the job even if we had a woodworker in the village, you know, because she’s a girl. But she’s always practicing making stuff anyway,” Wren went on. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have even gone to her, she doesn’t do like, fashion or face paint or anything.”

“That does explain a lot,” the man agreed.

 _“I_ designed it all,” Wren said haughtily.  _“I_ got all the stuff together, and carried it to her. She just put it together. That’s probably why it all went wrong.”

“It went wrong because you were trying to go too far against the grain,” Mr. Eliot said. “Not that outlandishness is not a virtue in its own right, but even the most fabulous queen would tell you, you need to start with who you are. What you need is to brush out all this lovely fur and appreciate how pretty it is, how long and straight and with a color people where I’m from would pay top dollar for, you don’t want to cover that in mud…” 

 

*

Jenna walked down the hill of the South River Road. Up ahead she could see where the road and the river nearly touched, with a muddy, rocky area between them which was home to one large oak tree. Under its shade, sunk in the mud down to a third of each wheel, was a covered wagon which listed slightly. Its cover had once been brightly painted,  _like something from a traveling show,_ she thought, but it was sun-faded and patched. In front was a campfire and some dilapidated chairs. A wooden board leaned against a rock closer to the road which read,

_WELCOME TRAVELERS_

_FROM ANY REALM_

_to_

_CLEVE’S_

This was not apparently enough explanation, for a second board accompanied the first.

_PROCURER OF_

_RELAXATION AND ENTERTAINMENT_

 

_SMILES GUARANTEED_

_If it ain’t Cleve’s, it ain’t fun!_

And a third, smaller sign, which looked newer than the rest.

_Come hear the True Stories of Fillory!_

_I WANT TO BELIEVE_

She grinned at the signs and then began to look for a path to the right and soon found it. It wasn’t long before she could hear a man and a dog talking as she made her way through the trees to the riverbank. 

“Now the nails,” the man was saying. “See, your instincts were very good here, your claws are an asset and you’re showing them off in a really cute way, you just need someone to paint them with a little brush and avoid the fur.”

Jenna was close enough now that she could see them, framed in the opening of the trees, sitting over on the riverbank.

The man was beautiful, long-limbed and graceful, and the dog looked like he had been attacked by a pack of wild children on their way to a costume party. She was so struck by an onslaught of giggles she clamped her hand over her mouth and stopped to keep herself hidden until she could regain her composure.

“Let’s get this off,” the man was saying, reaching for the bit of fabric tied at the dog’s neck, “And then I’ll clean off this mud and brush you out.” The man began to work his hands strangely and soon they glowed with a golden light. He then ran his hands over the dog’s fur and the mud vanished in wide strokes. 

“We’re-- not using the river water?” the dog asked, stunned to see the effects of the magic.

He wasn’t the only one. Jenna was transfixed. This must be the Magician Eliot, but the dog seemed too young to be Wicklet, though he matched the description from Nalie’s letters. Perhaps one of his pups.

“That’s not why we came here. Transformations are private things, Wren,” the man who must be Eliot said, as he waved away the charcoal around the dog’s eyes. “Finished looks are for the public. Turn around, please.”

Jenna was just beginning to move forward again but this stopped her. Perhaps she should allow them their privacy, at least until the dog was cleaned off. Eliot was right, some things are not for strangers like her to see. She often had to wait in the hall or the back room for a customer to dress or Mr. Farragut to take measurements on his male clients. Learning to eavesdrop was merely a pleasant side effect to the isolation.

“Okay, let’s talk about your-- cape?” the Magician was saying.

“Cloak,” the dog corrected him. 

“Your cloak. That’s not bad either, the bow showed off your neck. But this fabric is-- not right. And the whole thing didn’t want to stay on your back-- you need,  _oh my god Wren, you need a vest,_ ” Eliot said breathlessly, as he finished cleaning the mud off of the dog’s tail.

The dog cocked his head. “What’s a vest?”

Jenna’s mind began to fill with designs. A dog would be a new challenge.  _Perhaps they wouldn’t mind a suggestion or two..._ She peered at them, trying to assess if the private part had ended. The dog was now clean, and though the Magician had picked up a brush and began to smooth out his fur, the transformation-- or undoing of one-- seemed pretty much complete, so she began to walk down the path again.

“What’s a-- I never thought I’d live in a world where someone who knows  _me_ doesn’t know what a vest is. I practically brought them back into style single-handedly!” Eliot was saying excitedly. “A vest is the single greatest armor a sophisticate can wear, it keeps your back straight and your stomach in, and keeps your line straight--”

“Your… line?” 

“Your silhouette. The shape you make. And your shape, oh, it’s  _perfect_ for a vest.”

“I agree,” Jenna said, stepping forward to the pair. “Just make the pockets go the other way to account for gravity and you’re set. Maybe buttons on the back, too, if someone’s going to dress you in it, so they can reach them easier. Hi, I’m Jenna,” she added, putting out her hand. “Nalie’s sister. Are you Eliot? Mama said to look for you here.”

The man rose, took her hand, and bowed to her. “Yes, I am. And this is my friend, Wren. We’re working on his look. You sound like you know your way around fashion design.”

“I’m a seamstress. Or I was, I’m not sure if I’ll have a job when I get back,” she said. “And I… dabble in design, I guess you could say.”  _Or at least that’s what Mr. Farragut calls it,_ she thought darkly.  _But he’s happy enough to put his name on them._

Eliot cocked his head. “So… not actually a midwife? Because my family is having a baby as well, and we were going to ask--”

“Oh, yes, Nalie told me, congratulations! Don’t worry, I’m a midwife too. Trained up in that as my apprenticeship. Gave it up for more steady work. It’s all a long story, and I don’t want to interrupt your… lesson?” Jenna asked tentatively.

“Oh, yes, well, Wren here would like to be a fashionable  _sophisticate,”_ Eliot said with a meaningful eye to Jenna. 

“A-- Oh, I  _see,”_ Jenna said. She’d never heard of anything called that but she understood.  _Fancypants,_  she called them from her cramped workspace in the back of the shop as Mr. Farragut fawned over them in the front. Mr. Farragut called them  _gentlemen,_ because they placed a lot of orders.  _Skinflints_ and  _workadays_  hardly ordered anything and rated only measured politeness. “And how do we make this pretty dog even prettier?” she said, kneeling by Wren. 

“Will you be in our Village long enough to make a vest?” Eliot asked, as he sat back down to finish brushing out the dog’s fur.

“Like I said, I don’t really know if I still have a job? My master and I… had words. Anyway, I’m over two months early for Nalie’s due date, so, yeah, I guess I have some time. Do you not have a tailor here?” she asked.

“We do not. We lack many amenities, I’m afraid. Turn please, Wren,” Eliot said, and moved on to brushing out Wren’s tail. “But we have Movie Night once a week, so it’s not all bad. You could use the tailor’s shop, then?”

“I guess so. I did bring my sewing things, I brought everything, really. Wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t throw my stuff on the street,” Jenna said.

“I think I need to hear this story at some point. I’m starved for hot goss. There now,” Eliot said as he finished the tail and assessed his work. “That’s very pretty.  _And_ handsome,” he added with a knowing glance to the dog. “Well, Wren, it sounds like you’re well on your way to the wonder that is the vest. As for the rest of your look, I need some time to think on it. Let’s meet back here, before cocktail hour, next week. Jenna, would you like to join us? You could take his measurements, and we could all have a lovely cocktail after. And Wren, bring MJ. Is she old enough to drink?”

“She’s old enough, she’s seventeen, which is like a year and a couple months in real age. I’m more grown than her now. But she won’t come,” Wren said ruefully. “I told you, she thinks it’s stupid.”

“We’ll see about that,” Eliot said. “Let’s give her something to be intrigued by. I don’t like the idea of you getting charcoal so close to your eye, but some illusion magic…” Eliot did a tut and muttered under his breath, and then pointed a finger a few inches from Wren’s eye. He traced a shimmering gold line along the top, and then the bottom. As the light faded, the lines turned black, framing his eye in a thin line. “Now the other one, hold still so I can match.” He carefully drew another set of shimmering lines that faded into a mirror image of the others. “That should last a week. We can redo it when you come back, if you like it. Margo used it in Ibiza so she could swim, and it never faded the whole time. I never got the hang of doing it on myself, though. Sometimes you need a friend to help you out.”

Jenna was once again amazed at the magic, but the way he used it so nonchalantly made it seem like just another tool, like her scissors.

Wren looked down into the water for his reflection but it was blurred by the movement of the river. 

“There’s a mirror upstairs in the Wayward Room,” Eliot said. “I’d take you up there but someone needs to walk Miss Jenna to New House and I’ve been away from the tavern too long already. Would you do the honors? Escorting a lady, or a gentleman, to their destination is one key role of a sophisticate,” he added sagely. “You can see the mirror when you get back.”

“It would be my privilege, m’lady,” Wren said grandly, bowing low.

“You’ve got the moves like Jagger, I’ll give you that,” Eliot laughed. 

 _“Very_ sophisticated,” Jenna agreed with a grin, though she didn’t know what a jagger was. “My bags are up at the tavern, we can all walk back together.”

 

Once they had deposited Eliot and retrieved the wagon, Wren and Jenna walked through the Square and up the (North, although no one ever called it that) River Road, chatting as they went. 

“Wait-- you’re from Bigger Town?!” Wren said, his tail wagging hard. “Oh, I bet you go to all the parties. And plays. And operas. What’s it like? I bet it’s all so glamorous and amazing. Do you know any famous people?”

Jenna laughed. “Bigger Town is not that big. I mean, it’s not City or Court or anything. Although my master likes to pretend it is. And I guess there  _are_ those things-- I make clothes for people who go to parties and operas and the like-- but I never go.”

“Why not? If I lived there I’d be out dancing every night,” Wren said rapturously.

“I’m tired every night,” Jenna shrugged. “And anyway, you have to have money to live like that.”

“Oh… right…” Wren said dejectedly.

“But I know people who work at those parties, serving food or drink,” Jenna hastened to add. “Or perform, I know a bard who could sing you right to sleep.  _They_ get to go, even though they’re working. Maybe you could do something like that.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be that easy for me to serve things,” Wren noted. “But Mr. Eliot-- he’s going to be my master, now, I think, I hope anyway-- Mr. Eliot tends bar at the tavern, but he doesn’t just make drinks, he  _hosts,_ I remember him calling it that. He makes sure everyone has fun and he sings and he’s so  _funny,_ the kind without jokes, you know? Just like--” he cocked his head and talked out of the side of his mouth, _“‘She’s_ one to talk,’ stuff like that. And he started Movie Night, that’s when everyone meets in town and we tell stories. Mr. Eliot calls them movies, because Mr. Eliot’s from Somewhere Else, but he won’t say where. Mr. Eliot is very mysterious and interesting, and he’s a  _real_ sophisticate, and that’s why I want to apprentice with him.”

“You know, technically, if you came to Bigger Town,  _you’d_ be from Somewhere Else,” Jenna pointed out. “And you wouldn’t have to say where. Then you’d be mysterious too, at least to them.”

Wren considered this. “Mr. Eliot’s from a small village, too. He told me. I don’t think that’s the mysterious place, it sounded like it was boring and backward like this stupid hick town, and he went somewhere fabulous afterward  _that’s_ the secret place, and then here. Can’t imagine why he’d want to leave the fabulous place for this stupid village, though.”

“Nalie said he and Quentin are on a quest?” Jenna had the whole story from her sister, but it was quite mysterious, indeed. And she had the impression that not everyone knew the same things about them, partly because they dropped clues all over the place with different people, and partly because they kept some secrets for their closer friends, like Nalie and Hund. Arielle, she assumed given the engagement, must know just about everything. This dog, on the other hand, probably knew very little, so she tried to be careful.

“Yeah, they have to make a picture or something,” Wren responded. “I don’t know why they can’t figure it out, Mr. Eliot is so smart. And I bet he hates this stupid place too, he just wouldn’t talk like that in front of anyone who lives here. Anyone who’s not his apprentice, anyway. I bet he’ll tell me lots of stuff, once we really get going with my training.”

“You really dislike the Village,” Jenna noted. “I’m surprised, Nalie speaks very highly of everyone.”

“It’s just so  _boring._ I bet you can’t wait to leave. There’s not one fabulous person here besides Mr. Eliot. Even Mr. Coldwater isn’t. He’s got the same mysterious past and he’s a Magician from Somewhere Else too, but he’s just as  _soft_ and  _sweet_ and  _boring_ as everyone else. I guess not everyone can be like Mr. Eliot. But I know  _I_ can.” Wren added confidently.

“You know, with that attitude, I think you’re right,” Jenna said, amused.

 

 

 

tbc!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure if (my) Old Fillory would be patriarchal or not, but then they posted this video at ComicCon https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j3UDaamxQ8E with Julia faced with a REALLY backwards "sexist pig" from Fillory and I figured I should just go for it. Fight the Power, ladies!
> 
> Also, we took my son to see _Spiderman: Far From Home_ for his birthday, and MJ-- or at least her look-- just seemed perfect for Wren's friend. I meant to change her name, but after working on this draft for awhile I just got used to it, and she became MJ to me, and it felt weird to change it. :) So it's not a cross-over, she's not even like MJ, really, but if you want a picture in your mind, that's who she's based on. :) You'll meet her next week, in a still un-named chapter. :) 
> 
> Don't forget to leave a comment! I sure love to read your words, too!!!


	32. Measurements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> meas·ure  
> verb  
> 1\. to ascertain the size, amount, or degree of (something)  
> 2\. to estimate or assess the extent, quality, value, or effect of (something).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for a discussion of a long-ago date rape in the last scene, not explicit. #metoo

Eliot was coming out of the kitchen when he saw Wren coming into the tavern with a tall, gangly girl with frizzy hair, which was making a valiant effort to escape the leather tie she had wrestled it into. She wore men’s boots and a simple print dress under a man’s work jacket, and slouched along after Wren as if she would rather be anywhere else. 

Wren, for his part, seemed quite happy, tail high and wagging. He wore a red ribbon tied in a large bow around his neck and a smaller one around the tip of his tail. It went flying off from a vigorous wag and the girl, whom Eliot assumed must be MJ, scooped it up with a sigh and followed him into the tavern.

Wren bowed low to him and Eliot, putting a foot out in front of him and his hand on his heart, did the same. 

“Love the bow on your neck, Wren,” Eliot said. “You know, where I come from dogs wear collars, sort of like necklaces, we should talk about that. And you must be the famous MJ,” he added, turning to the awkward girl, and MJ frowned. He put out his hand for her to shake. “I’m Eliot.”  

She shook it with a grunt. 

“A good, firm handshake,” Eliot said with approval. “Good for business. I hear you want to be a woodworker?”

MJ shuffled her feet. “I mean, I make stuff.”

“And it’s good, I hear. Need to talk to you about that, we might have some work for you. Jenna! You made it! Perfect,” Eliot said to the short woman as she came in the door, and he walked up to her and bowed to her, which made her giggle. “The gang’s all here, so let’s get started. Wren, you and Jenna can use the Wayward Room for her to take your measurements. MJ and I can chat here until you’re done.” 

Once Wren and Jenna had started up the stairs, Eliot took his place behind the bar and MJ sat on a stool.

“What can I get for you?” 

“Water is fine,” MJ said. “Bit early for beer.”

“It is indeed. Waters all around, then.” He filled two mugs from a water pitcher and gave her one. “So, tell me about yourself. You like to make things? What sorts of things?” 

MJ shrugged. “Furniture, toys, whatever.”

“And you… give them to friends?”

She shrugged again. “I give them to my mom, she has friends. That she gives things to.” 

“Hmm. And you have your own workshop?”

Another shrug. “In our barn.”

“Well, we have a woodworker’s shop just off the Square, why don’t you take it over?”

“I can’t--”

“Be a village woodworker? Yes, Wren told me. It’s nonsense. If your work is good-- and Wren says it is-- you certainly can. And if anyone has a problem with that, you send them to me. Honestly, Fillory now is just so… fucking patriarchal. But our Arielle runs the bakery, and Mama runs this tavern. If you were raised around this Village, I don’t know where you got the idea you can’t be a woodworker from.”

“From not being able to get an apprenticeship,” MJ grumbled. 

“Well. We will have to see what can be done about that,” Eliot huffed. “You can’t run a kingdom with half your population under the thumb of the other half, that’s ridiculous.”

“I’m not trying to run--”

“Sorry, flashbacks. No, you’re right, you can’t change everything in Fillory yourself. But you can make your stand and show the world what you can do.”

“You ain’t from around here, that’s for sure.” MJ said.

“No. But I came from somewhere _like_ here and then left and did what I wanted. Which I highly recommend, whatever your gender. Or species. Are you still in school?” He asked, as he began to set up the bar for the night.

MJ shook her head. “Just graduated.”

“So you have time on your hands? Because despite your not being our actual woodworker, I do have actual woodworking needs. A wedding arch, for starters. My friends, Quentin and Arielle, are getting married in the Square in a couple of months.”

MJ nodded. “Heard about that.”

“Yes, well, in this Village, word spreads like wildfire. If I didn’t know better I would swear there was Twitter and no one told us. Although here, who knows? It could be the actual birds.”

“You sure talk strange. Wren said he wanted to sound like you. But if he did, no one would ever understand him.”

“I admit, I don’t go to great lengths to make my speech accessible. Mama would probably say I’m _all hat and no cattle,_ if that helps.”

“Doesn’t make me feel any better ‘bout Wren being your apprentice. Sounds like you want to make him a faker.”

“Not at all,” Eliot said. “I want him to be himself, which he feels he needs some assistance with, that’s all. You sound like you care about him a lot.”

MJ shrugged. “He comes around. No one else does.”

“Sometimes we find unlikely friends in unlikely places,” Eliot agreed. 

“How did you make your friends?”

“Quentin was assigned to me in school, to show him around when he got there. Talk about unlikely friends, oh, you should have seen him in his tired Men’s Wearhouse jacket, it was _tragic._ _And_ he was late, I sat there for an hour and a half waiting for him to finally follow the clues, and another five straight minutes of him untangling himself from branches.” He shrugged at her confused look. “Our school was... difficult to get into. Anyway, we became friends, and then we came here, and that’s where we met Ari, when she first delivered us peaches and plums.”

“I know Ari.”

“I know, I asked her about you. I must say, I’m intrigued by you. You took so much time helping Wren get ready, but it doesn’t seem like you approve.”

MJ shrugged. “I just don’t want him to be fake, that’s all. I hate fake people.”

“I’m Eliot Waugh, and I approve this message,” Eliot declared.

“You... already introduced yourself?” MJ frowned.

“I just mean I don’t like fakers either. And I’m not one, anymore. I’ll confess, I used to let people think all kinds of things about me that weren’t true.”

“Still do, don’t ya?”

Eliot narrowed his eyes at her again. “No, that was me pretending to be from old money and hoping no one asked too many questions. This is me stuck with a lot of secrets that are in no one’s best interest to know and hoping no one asks too many questions. _Completely_ different.”

“MJ,” Wren whined as he came down the stairs, “we had to take the bow off to measure my neck and she can’t do it like you had it.”

“C’mere,” MJ sighed, and knelt down by the dog and began working on the bow.

“What were you talking about?” Wren craned his neck up to give her room, and to look up at Eliot, who leaned over the bar. “Was it gossip?”

“Only about me and my wicked past,” Eliot smirked. “MJ thinks I’m going to be a bad influence on you.”

“Alright, settle down, Dread Pirate Roberts,” Wren said with an eye roll, in a pretty fair impression of Eliot, and everyone laughed.

“Bravo, Bean,” Eliot nodded with a wink. “Did you get everything sorted for the vest?”

“Yes, _and,_ she’s going to make me a saddlebag pouch so I can carry things! It’s going to look _gorgeous.”_

“Not heavy things,” Jenna hastened to add. “He wants a nice brocade and it just can’t take the weight.”

“If you could carry fabric samples and notes, you’d save all of us a lot of trips. Wren, how would you like to be my right hand man, er, dog, as I plan this wedding?”

“Darling, try to stop me,” Wren said grandly.

 

*

Jenna tapped her foot nervously as Eliot looked over her designs for Arielle’s wedding dress. The sound combined with the click of Wren’s red claws on the stones of the tailor shop floor, as the dog moved around the room, sniffing at her sewing gear. She had given him a list of things she still needed, and he was cross-checking it against what she had to make sure it was correct.

“Oh, Jenna, these are _good,_ sister!” Eliot raved, shuffling through the drawings on the table. “I thought I’d end up drawing something myself. You said you dabble?”

Wren padded over to the table and put his paws up on it to look.

“I like to come up with ideas,” Jenna shrugged. 

“Do you make them?”

“Every now and again my master picks one for a client, and I get to make it.”

“How often?”

“Well… they’re… all... mine, to tell the truth,” Jenna admitted, her toe-tapping turning to knee-jiggling. “But I draw more than we make, so…”

“You draw them _and_ you make them… what does _he_ do, exactly?”

“He deals with the customers,” Jenna said. “And… it’s his name on the door.”

“Oh, I see,” Eliot said slowly. _“[They just use your mind,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UbxUSsFXYo4) and they never give you credit, it’s enough to drive you crazy if you let it,” _he sang.

Jenna laughed. “Did you just make that up? That is just… dead on.”

“Far be it from me steal a lady’s song,” Eliot said. “That was written by the inestimable Lady Dolly.”

“[ Dis one ](https://www.allaboutweddingplanning.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/wedding-dresses-with-sleeves1.jpg),” Wren said, pulling on the edge of a parchment with his mouth. “Look at the sleeves!”

It was an empire waist dress, as directed, with a lace bodice and sleeves that had a frill on the top and around the arm. The rest of the dress was shaded with a very light texture, as if it were satin or silk. 

“Ooh, good eye, Wren. You’re right, they’re just perfect for our sweetheart princess. Of course, we’ll need the bride’s final approval.” He circled the parchment in his hands until it was a tight scroll, which he pushed into Wren’s saddlebag. “Would you run this over?” he asked the dog, who bowed and trotted out the door. “Now, wait,” Eliot said, turning to Jenna. “We haven’t talked about payment.”

“I can’t guarantee a price on the fabric, the lace might get a little pricey, but there’s not too much of it. I can give you an estimate when I make the pattern.”

“No, I mean for you. What do you make for a dress like this at your shop?”

“Make? I mean, I’m just a seamstress. I don’t get paid.”

“I’m sorry, you don’t get _paid?”_

“Room and board, you know, like usual. Mr. Farragut is generous enough, I live in the back room of the shop, and I eat from his table, so…”

“You dine with him? So you’re friends?”

“Oh no, I mean, I eat whatever he doesn’t. From the... table,” she added to clarify what was apparently an unfamiliar phrase to him.

“And what if he finishes all of it?”

“He never does,” Jenna shrugged. “I make sure to make a very large portion, and he hasn’t complained yet that I’m spending too much at the market.”

“Alright...” Eliot said slowly through pursed lips. “God, I miss my flask.”

“Are you… okay?”

“Mr. Farragut is quite fortunate that I never go to Bigger Town,” Eliot growled. “Well, _we_ are going to pay you. Or give you a decent enough trade that you’ll be satisfied. To start with, I’m giving you myself. I am _your_ unpaid servant now, Mistress Tailor.” He bowed to her. “Though I’m usually only available nights and weekends.”

“I do like working at night, but candles and fabric aren’t a great mix,” Jenna pointed out.

“I’ll ward the whole place with fire suppression, part of the trade. The candles will work but the fire won’t spread. I’ve done it for everyone in the village. Well, Quentin did some of them.”

“I did some of what?” Quentin said, as he came into the tailor shop. “Hi, you must be Jenna.”

“No! Q, wait!” Eliot squealed as he collected up the wedding dress designs. “You can’t see these!”

“Pretty sure I’m just not supposed to see _her_ in it,” Quentin pointed out. “I’m sorry, Jenna, Wedding Eliot gets a little excitable. Please don’t let him drive you up a tree.”

“He’s considerably calmer than my master,” Jenna said. 

“Who b t dubs is a total asshole,” Eliot muttered. “She eats his _table scraps,_ Q! And he steals her designs, while she sews and cooks and shops for him, it’s _disgusting.”_

“I don’t know why he’s making such a big deal about this,” Jenna said. “It’s the same arrangement as all servants, it’s fine. He doesn’t hit me, and he hasn’t tried to put his hands on me, I get plenty of food, it’s fine.”

“It’s _not_ fine!” Eliot exclaimed. “That is the _lowest_ fucking bar, I’m sorry, but where we’re from--”

“People have to work two and three jobs and spend all their money on rent,” Quentin said. “Let’s not paint too rosy a picture. And did we ever check on how our-- I mean, at White-- at the white house we lived in?”

“I never had one second to think about it,” Eliot admitted. “Bit busy trying to keep the whole thing together. Maybe if half the team hadn’t left me and Margo to deal with it all--”

“Could we not have this argument right _now,_ Eliot? It’s your turn to do the puzzle.”

“Mistress,” Eliot said to Jenna with a bow, “May I be excused?”

Jenna giggled at the ridiculousness of the situation. “Of course.”

Wren appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Eliot, Arielle says,  _that one’s great but could she see all of them anyway because it's her gods-damned dress._  Sorry," he nodded to the others. "And you can’t go do the puzzle now, we’re supposed to meet MJ at her shop to look at her plans for the wedding arch,” Wren said.

“Oh, right. Sorry, Q, duty calls. Dinner will be late, I suppose, or go up to the tavern if you and Ari get too hungry.” He patted Quentin’s arm as he passed by him, then stopped. “Listen to me very carefully, baby, this is very serious for your health. _Do not. try. to cook.”_  

Quentin laughed and shoved him off.

“C’mon, Bean, we have a quest!” Eliot said grandly, and swanned out of the tailor’s shop. Wren gave Quentin and Jenna a quick bow and to Jenna’s amazement, managed to copy Eliot’s swagger, adjusted to four legs, out the door.

Quentin shook his head with a chuckle. “I’m sorry, weddings turn him up to eleven. I mean, get him riled up.”

“I figured, it seems important to him. And I can’t imagine anyone would have the energy to keep that up all the time.”

“You’d be surprised,” Quentin shrugged. “So, um, what do you? What do I do? For the measurements?”

“Oh, just come stand over here,” Jenna said, leading him to an empty spot. She assembled some parchment and lead and her measuring tape.

“The… windows?”

“Oh, you don’t need to undress. I may need to pull up your sleeve or something, but this is fine. Especially for the designs we have going. Can you hold up your hair? We’ll start with your neck,” Jenna said. 

“What kind of designs?"

“Eliot described some things, I drew them,” Jenna said as she noted the measurement and then put the tape on the length of his shoulder. “They’re over there, no, ah, ah, you can see them in a minute,” she admonished as she pulled him back in place. “Put your left hand on your hip, please.”

“Thank you for doing this.”

“It’s my pleasure. It’s nice to work alone. Or, you know, not _alone_ because of Eliot, but not having anyone breathing down my neck.”

“We sort of… work for ourselves, too? It is nice. No more running late for work or class.”

“Nalie told me about the puzzle,” Jenna said, as she reached around Quentin to pull the tape around his torso. “Is that… okay?”

Quentin looked at her quizzically. “I sort of figured you’d have to touch me?”

“No, I mean, is it okay that I know about the puzzle?” She jotted down the chest measurement and moved the tape to his waist.

“Yeah, sure,” Quentin shrugged. “It was here long before we arrived, it’s not a secret to anyone.” 

“Oh good. So it must be really hard, huh? You’ve been at it for years now. Hold this here,” she instructed, and he held the tape to his waist while she measured to the floor.

“Just over three, yeah. I don’t-- I don’t think of it like solving it? Anymore. It’s just like, I don’t know, tending a garden? That might produce something, someday, if we keep caring for it? I’m sorry, It’s hard to explain.”

“Okay, this one is going to get a little personal,” Jenna noted, motioning to his inseam, “Do you want me to wait for Eliot to do it?”

“Oh god no, I’d rather not be stuck here having to fend off the innuendos for what I’m sure would take ten times as long. Go ahead, just? Keep talking, about anything else, and it won’t be weird, right?”

“Right,” Jenna said, although this would be her first time measuring a man’s inseam. But she knew what he meant because Mr. Farragut-- who had his clients undress for their measurements-- also seemed to take much longer than needed. And usually went to lie down after. “Um, I feel like I had more questions, about… what happens when you solve it, or something? But I can’t remember…” she said as she knelt down and pulled the tape taught against the inside of his leg.

“Yeah,” Quentin shrugged. “That happens. I wouldn’t worry about it. So how is Eliot’s apprentice working out?”

“I’d like to know that, too,” MJ said as she came in the door of the shop.

Jenna jumped up, her face red. Taking the measurement hadn’t been weird at all, it turned out, but having someone walk in while she was doing it made her heart leap into her throat. Fortunately, the only look on the girl’s face was the classic sullenness of a teenager.

“And… who are you?” Quentin asked.

“This is MJ, Wren’s friend,” Jenna explained. “MJ, this is Quentin. Were you looking for Wren and Eliot? They left a bit ago looking for you. But if you’re here, well, maybe they’ll be back.”

“Hmm, yeah, I guess I misunderstood,” MJ grunted. “So, Wren’s doing okay? With this, _sophisticate_ thing?” she asked.

“Oh yes, he’s actually quite helpful,” Jenna said. “He’s a walking book of lists, he’s been keeping us both organized. I’m just going to--” she motioned to Quentin’s leg, “--um, yeah.” _No one cares, Jenna, get over it,_ she thought, and she knelt down to wrap the tape around Quentin’s thigh.

“And Eliot?” Quentin asked. “Does it-- make him-- you know, _worse?_ To have someone follow him around and worship him constantly?”

“Oh, you don’t have to be jealous, Wren isn’t interested in him, other than to learn from him,” MJ said.

Quentin laughed. “Oh god, I wasn’t worried about _that._ Eliot is a lot of things, but he is _not_ into dogs. And anyway, he already has a boyfriend, sort of.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Jenna said.

“No? Oh, I guess you heard from Nalie that we used to be together. Yeah, that’s not-- that’s not the important part of me and Eliot.”

“What’s the important part?” MJ asked earnestly. Her face didn’t look like it made that face very often.

Quentin tucked his hair behind his ear as he considered. “Eliot is my _friend,_ first and foremost. And I mean, a _true_ friend, someone who has your back no matter what. Someone who gets you, and lets you _be_ you, and doesn’t run off if you get weird or do the wrong thing.”

Jenna nodded from where she was measuring Quentin’s ankle-- this was what Nalie was for her, even though she was also family. But MJ stared at him wide-eyed, as if waiting for him to continue with this lesson.

“Am I not… making sense?” Quentin said.

“I just… how do you get one of those?” MJ said, coming fully inside to lean on the worktable.

“Time? I guess? I mean, Eliot pretty much took me under his wing when we met at school, but we weren’t really friends, not like this, not for a long time. We went through a lot? And… I don’t know, I finally got over being completely fascinated by him and started to see who he really was? And you know how he is, Ari calls him _shiny Eliot,_ but when you _really_ see him, under all that, he’s-- well, he’s a lot more than that. He has the biggest heart...” He stopped, blushing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to go on like that.”

“But you’re-- over him?” Jenna asked, rising and jotting down the measurement. “And your heart belongs to Arielle, now?” She wasn’t sure how that would work-- her knowledge of romances being limited to novels, in which True Love, like Nalie had described before the breakup, couldn’t just go back to being Friends without just stewing under false pretenses until they crashed together again. She had never courted anyone herself, and being on the screaming, messy, midwifery end of things had not done anything to convince her she should try it. 

“Like, romantically? I mean, with El it’s like? bigger? than, like, whatever, he’s-- He’s my _friend,_ but it’s not-- that’s just a word-- look, it’s like these designs, right?” He motioned to the sketches on the table. “There’s the word, _suit,_ and then there are these, and there’s so much more to them already, more variation, shape, color. But then you make one, and it’s like, more? Of the thing? More than the drawings or the word. It has texture, and scent, and-- whatever fabric has. But then you _wear_ it, to your wedding, or to someone else’s wedding, and someone cries on it or spills a drink during a joke and then it’s not a _suit_ anymore, even though it _is,_ but after all that it’s way _beyond_ a suit. And so when I say he’s my _friend,_ I mean, that’s true? But he’s _so_ much more than that to me,” he shrugged to MJ’s studious frown and Jenna’s welling eyes.

“I see you’ve met our resident romantic,” Eliot said softly from where he leaned in the doorway. “He does all our feeling for us. It’s a very efficient system.” Wren sat by his feet, his head cocked.

Quentin blushed, hard, and ducked his head and tucked his hair behind his ear. “Oh, hey asshole,” he mumbled.

“Hey, dick,” Eliot replied lightly, as he lifted off of the door and came into the shop. Wren trotted over to MJ, who patted his head absentmindedly. 

“So I guess you’ve been looking at the designs?” the tall man continued as he moved to the worktable.

“Not really, I haven’t been able to reach the table, yet,” Quentin said.

“Oh, we’re done,” Jenna said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. 

Quentin walked over to the table and began shuffling through the curling parchments. He paused, his eyes wide with wonder. “These are all… your suits from--”

‘Yes, well,” Eliot shrugged. “My knowledge of Fillorian fashion is limited.”

“Wait, you’ve _worn_ these?” Jenna said, aghast. 

“Ah ah ah, ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” Eliot said with a wave.

“Oh, this, I always loved you in [ this ](https://hale-appleman.com/photos/albums/Television/The_Magicians/Season_02/Promotionals/008.jpg%5D),” Quentin said, holding up a design of a tunic jacket and pants, all of a swirling silver brocade. 

“Really? I was wearing that the day Alice-- I mean, I never wore it again because I didn’t want to bring up bad memories.”

Quentin pursed his lips and nodded, but recovered quickly. “Oh is that why?” he smirked. “I thought it was a repeat-outfits situation.”

Eliot laughed. “Baby, I never worried about that with _you._ His idea of fashion,” he explained, “is to match a black hoodie with a black tee-shirt. Tragic. Anyway, we were just throwing around ideas. [ This one, ](https://am21.akamaized.net/tms/cnt/uploads/2018/02/syfy-the-magicians-poached-eggs-1200x800.jpg) though, what do you think?” he asked, holding up a parchment. “It doesn’t have to be in this color, though I think you’d look good in it.”

It was a simple jacket with a single button at the waist, drawn in lavender with taupe trim, the lapels curling lazily. It was long in the back, almost like a tuxedo’s tails, and covered an eggplant-colored wrapped shirt with a high collar, and simple, very light lavender pants. 

“It’s a lot sleeker than some of the more fluttery ones I had, so it’s more your style,” Eliot continued, “and the high button on the jacket should lengthen your line.”

“But the collar should come down, I think,” Jenna said. “His neck isn’t as long as yours, we don’t want it to disappear.” 

“Ooh, yes, and that sweet V that his neck makes where it hits his collarbones, we should _definitely_ show that off,” Eliot agreed.

Quentin fidgeted and blushed. “Okay, feeling like a piece of meat, here, can I just-- go?” he said. “Whatever you pick is fine.”

“Oh no, Prince Charming, I need your _consent,”_ Eliot said with a grin, stepping close enough so his chest lay against Quentin’s shoulder. He reached up and petted his hair slowly. Quentin’s shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly. “It’s _your_ wedding. And you know you can’t just let me off the leash, who knows what I might do... Color, baby?” he purred into Quentin’s ear, his eyes twinkling wickedly.

Quentin’s cheeks burned red. “I’m green, _I_ like that one too, just-- do what you want,” he stammered and practically ran out of the door.

“I love doing that to him,” Eliot chuckled slyly. “It’s one of the few vices I still indulge in.”

“Okay, he was _just_ here telling us about your amazing _friendship,”_ Jenna insisted. “But that was so hot I feel singed. It was like it was right out of _Lord Gillyford’s Lover._ ”

“There’s nothing _only_ about friends, Jenna,” Eliot said, his voice serious and fond. “Not when you’ve got what we’ve got. He wasn’t wrong, though I do intend to give him shit about calling me an old suit,” he chuckled. “And anyway, yes, we keep our hands off each other now because, you know, monogamy,” he waved his hand, “and anyway, just because you love someone doesn’t mean it has to be like that, _Lord Whosis Whatever,_ or the book you lent me-- which, ah, the angst was delish-- but is that all you read? You should try some mysteries instead.”

“But you still... tease him?” Jenna insisted.

“It’s good to know I’ve still got it,” Eliot shrugged. “And it keeps him on his toes.”

A rabbit appeared on the worktable. “Met Q in Square,” it said.

Another. “He’s dee tee eff.”

Another. “What did you do?”

Eliot grinned and picked up a rabbit. “To Arielle. I warmed him up.” It vanished and he picked up another. “To Arielle. You’re welcome. Love, Eliot.” It vanished like the first and he grinned at Jenna and MJ. “See, _best_ friends.”

“Look who I found wandering around like a lost cat down t’the tavern?” called out a high-pitched voice, and they all looked up to see a short, thin man leading in a priest, who had to step over the remaining escaping rabbit as they passed through the door.

“Father!” Eliot cried, and ran over to throw his arms around the priest’s neck. 

Jenna’s eyes were locked on the eyes of the short man, and both of them froze, their mouths agape. He was just her height, with crooked teeth and patches of unkempt stubble and hair that stuck out like a porcupine from under a beaten felt hat and the brightest blue eyes, and he was the most beautiful sight Jenna had ever seen. Her heart stopped.

“Jenna, this is--” Eliot began, but the short man cut him off, sticking his hand out stiffly in front of him as he pulled off his hat and placed it over his heart.

“I’m Cleve, ma’am, and it is an honor to make yer acquaintance,” he said nervously and a little too loud.

“Jenna,” she said, taking his hand to shake, eyes still wide as saucers. “But I guess he, um, just said that? So…”

“Oh, Rand, look. I think I know what lightning in a bottle looks like now,” Eliot sighed.

Rand squeezed his waist, “Shh, don’t ruin it.”

But Jenna still had a hold of Cleve’s hand, her wide brown eyes still locked on his wide blue ones, and nothing could ruin that.

 

*

Later that night, Rand was propped up in bed in the Wayward Room, with Eliot wrapped around him and his head on Rand’s chest. They had finished having “fun sexytimes” as Eliot called it-- once Rand had been able to pull him away from the dog that followed Eliot everywhere now-- and they were snuggling under a thin sheet.

“Eliot…” Rand began.

“Yes, _Father?”_ Eliot purred, and snuggled closer.

“Mmm,” Rand kissed Eliot’s head. “No, seriously, I want to ask you something.”

“Fire away.”

“How are you, really, about-- the other Coldwater-Waughs getting married? I know there’s still-- a lot going on with you and Quentin... I could still marry you to him too, if you wanted.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” Eliot smirked.

“Never. But I know I don’t get to keep you, either, so, I’m okay,” Rand said, kissing him on the head again.

Eliot propped up an elbow and studied Rand’s eyes. “Really? Seriously, _are_ you? Because I want you to be. I really care about you, Rand, and I know that both of us have our obligations but I _never_ want you to feel like I’m using you.”

“I don’t,” Rand shrugged.

“No, wait, this is important. If you felt that way for one _second,_ I’d turn this whole car around,” Eliot said seriously.

Rand sighed. “Translation?”

“I’d stop seeing you. If it ever hurt you at all.”

“Protector of the Realm,” Rand smiled, and brushed a curl out of Eliot’s eye.

“What?” Eliot looked startled.

“Ha, now _I_ need to translate?” Rand chuckled. “Let’s just say Mama knows you really well. She said you would protect me. But I don’t need protecting, not from you. You’re not using me, you bring me a gift every time we’re together, the gift of you. And I just feel lucky to get it, every time.”

“You are seriously too sweet to exist.” Eliot leaned forward to kiss him. 

“Oh good, my evil plans are working,” Rand teased.

“Ugh, don’t,” Eliot said, pulling away to roll over onto his back. “I really don’t want to have to get married again to stop you, too.”

“Is this a translation issue, or--”

Eliot sighed. “I got caught in a honeytrap. Do you know that term?”

“No.”

“Then I guess it is a translation issue.” Eliot stared at the ceiling. “I had a-- I was with a man named Mike. I thought we would, I don’t know, end up in a city loft with two dogs?” He gave a rueful laugh. “But he turned out to be an evil Magician. Or the evil Magician was using his body, anyway, possessing him, so it was Mike, but it was really always... Martin…” he trailed off. “Anyway, he was using me to get to Quentin. To kill him, for-- reasons. He took up with me to-- I’m not sure, really. Kill time until Quentin got back from another campus? Or weasel his way into our group to spy on us? Anyway, I fell for it. And eventually I-- cleaned up that mess.” His eyes went glassy, for a second, but he blinked and continued. “But the evil Magician was still out there, still trying to kill us, still trying to… do very bad things. And we needed a special knife, to kill him. Fen was the knife-makers’ daughter, and he would only give up the knife if one of us married her. And I was the one who... drew the short straw.”

“No wonder you’re allergic. That doesn’t sound like much of a marriage.”

Eliot shrugged. “We consummated it as ordered, so it was pretty official.”

“Is that why-- you don’t like sex with women? Because of this forced marriage?”

“I didn’t like sex with women before that. I know for Fillorians that’s weird, but I just-- it’s not something I am into. But anyway she didn’t _force_ me, I married her, I knew what I was doing. And she was in a bad position, too, we were both just… trying to make the best of it.”

“But did you _want_ to-- consummate it?”

“No. I really did not. But I really, _really_ wanted to kill that asshole more, so. I-- I made it work. Sort of. We managed to make a baby, at any rate. And I wasn’t always allergic to marriage. After Fen I nearly married a man, too, Idri. Another arrangement, but you know? At the time... he seemed like the only bright spot in my increasingly fucked up life, and I jumped at it. Plus he reminded me a lot of my mentor, only a sober, commanding version, who had experience in the same… field as I was in at the time, whereas my actual mentor was no help at all. I did try to talk to him first, see if we were at all compatible, but our… talk got cut short, and... Well, it all fell apart before I found out what I was in for, exactly.”

Rand propped up on an elbow. “Eliot, that’s-- that’s not right. What you were _in for?_ I just-- that’s not right.”

Eliot frowned at him. “I didn’t have a _choice,_ Rand. What would you do to stop a war? It was either that or fight him to the death, and he was the better swordsman, by far.”

It took Rand a second before those confusing sentences clicked into place. _That royalty joke wasn’t hyperbolic,_ he remembered Mama saying. _I only fuck transactionally with royalty,_ Eliot had said. His mouth fell open but he closed it quickly when he realized it wasn’t helping anything to gawk at… _King Eliot?_ Maybe? But whoever he was, right now he was just a man, his friend, laying naked on his bed in the flickering candlelight, looking vulnerable and powerful all at once. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean your choice wasn’t right, I’m sure you were doing what was best for-- everyone, but it’s just not fair, to _you._ No wonder you’re worried about using me. It sounds like everyone has been using _you.”_  

Eliot chuckled ruefully. “I used up all my free love coupons before all this started. That was my time. This was-- time to grow up, I guess.”

It was Rand’s turn to frown. “That’s not what marriage is supposed to be. It’s not a prison. Or at least it shouldn’t be one. It wouldn’t be with Quentin, he has your heart, I know--”

“He doesn’t--” Eliot sat up and pulled the sheet around his waist. He ran his hands through his hair. “Ugh, why does everyone act like I’m [ Mrs. Danvers ](http://screenprism.com/insights/article/queering-classic-hollywood-why-we-love-mrs.-danvers) ? No one understands, I feel like everyone looks at me with pity, like I’m losing something, like I’m pining away for my lost love, but I _can’t_ lose him. He’s in my _bones._ He doesn’t _have_ my heart, he _is_ my heart.” He stopped and took a breath. “Q is my _friend,_ and our friendship is so much more complicated, bigger, than just... romantic feelings, or attraction that we have. Those are like... tiny specks in infinite space.” He was twisting the sheet in his hands, but otherwise he was very still, not looking at Rand. “The thing is-- I couldn’t be here, with you, like this, if it weren’t for Quentin. I owe him _everything._ He is why I’m better.” He paused, and frowned. “You think Fen was-- and maybe, I don’t know-- but it wasn’t like-- Look, something-- happened. That I haven’t told you about, that no one knows but Quentin, not even Ari... _”_

“Do you… want to tell me? You don’t have to.”

“I do, though, I think. Not just for you, but for me. I think I need at least one person to know that this wedding is nothing, _nothing_ but joy for me.”

Rand sat up, cross-legged, and waited for Eliot to gather his thoughts.

“It’s about...  the Magician. That the knife was for. But it started before-- before we knew he existed.” He paused. “It started with the honeytrap. I shouldn’t have even fallen for it. He was,” he gave a dark chuckle, “looking back, the _shittiest_ boyfriend, even before he went on his murder spree. He’d neg me and ignore the things I did for him, and he didn’t like me spending time with Margo and he-- he--” Eliot stopped, and looked down at his hands, which were gripping the sheet. He took a deep breath, and let go a ragged sigh.

“What, El? Tell me,” Rand said kindly.

“He was... mean. In bed,” Eliot said, his voice just above a whisper. “I thought-- I thought I was turned on by it. I _was_ turned on by it. But it wasn’t-- it wasn’t good. Or healthy. He called me names, got rough, hit me-- I-- I don’t know why I liked that.”

“And that’s why you’re so careful. The color system and all that.”

Eliot nodded. “He just wouldn’t-- he wouldn’t _stop.”_ He paused, and closed his eyes. “Even when I tried to safeword out, he just-- And he liked to tie my hands, and I thought that was sexy too but now I know it was so I couldn’t cast, and I think now his room was-- warded? Maybe? Because I couldn’t get my telekinesis to work… I thought maybe it was because… I actually wanted it? Even though--” He was twisting the sheet in his hands, and took another ragged breath. “It was just so _confusing,_ because I was _there,_ I was totally down, I was happily going to do whatever, he didn’t have to-- or make it so-- But I thought-- I thought it was passion, he was too carried away, he wanted me so bad, I drove him wild, but...”

“He raped you,” Rand said softly. He reached for Eliot’s hand and when he had it, he held it tight.

Eliot nodded and squeezed his hand back, but didn’t look up. “I could still excuse it away as some sort of-- misunderstanding? Until he started killing people, and by then, well, a little scary sex? Didn’t seem worth complaining about. But when I found out about his totally fucked-up childhood-- he’d been molested by this sick fuck when he was a kid, and you know, then it clicked, then I could see it. How he treated me, the cruelty, it was probably not too far off of what had happened to him. But I couldn’t care about that, because by then, he had done it to _me._ Not just used me and put that blood on my hands-- which, you know, that too-- but he also _hurt_ me, not just physically, but like… he really fucked me up.” He ran his hands through his hair again. “I pushed it really far down, you know? So far down it was like it hadn’t happened, or at least, hadn’t happened to me, or it was some bad dream. It was easier when I was in Fillory, with Fen, and everything was different. And, you know.. after that, there was always something else happening, some other emergency, one after another like we were on a TV show that was chasing ratings… Anyway, even as weird as the thing with Fen was, at least she didn’t-- threaten me, or-- she was… nice about it? I guess…” he trailed off. “And I tried _really hard_ to be accommodating but… it did make me... uncomfortable… I don’t know, maybe you’re right about that.”

“Oh, El, I’m so sorry, none of this is fair,” Rand said, and squeezed his hand.

“The never-ending merry-go-round of people fucking with me. Good times,” Eliot said darkly, then looked up at Rand with earnest eyes. “But not _Quentin._ Quentin was never, _ever_ like that, at _all._ We had been together before, once-- it was after Martin but we had Margo with us, who runs a _very_ tight ship, consent-wise... except for substances, I suppose, as I was very, _very_ drunk at the time... But anyway, I wondered, when we got here, what he would do, what he would… _want_ from me, because… I guess because I was... getting used to that? But he never acted like he expected _anything_ from me… so much so I used to tease him about only liking girls. Because I was actually getting a bit insulted that he wasn’t trying to… use me, sweet Jesus, I was a fucking mess.” He shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. “But he was always a perfect gentleman, because he knew, I’d told him-- not that it was Martin, because I didn’t want him to take that on himself-- but he knew it had happened with _someone_ and he was just… being careful. Of _me,_ ” he added, as if that were something unheard of. “It took nearly a _year_ of being here before he even made a _joke_ about us making out, and I joked back like, sure, kiss me sometime, see what happens, you know, because I didn’t think he would, but then one night, he did. It was just this sweet little kiss and then he sat back and grinned at me, like, _Okay, it’s all up to you now._ And you know... _it was._ For _every single moment after that._ It was always, _always_ up to me. He was so kind, and gentle, and playful, and he could get, you know, _enthusiastic,_ but never _once_ did he stop checking in with me to make sure I was still good, still green… I taught him that but he was the one who used it most. To _protect_ me, because by then… I had a lot of time to think, here, and being with a man again regularly-- both of those together, it was just-- something I had to deal with, and Q, he helped me through that.” Tears were beginning to spill down his cheeks.

Rand got up to fish a handkerchief out of his bags. He brought it back to Eliot and quickly pulled on a pair of short pants that he usually slept in before sitting cross-legged next to him.

“But it wasn’t the _romantic_ Quentin that did that,” Eliot insisted as he took the handkerchief and wiped his face. “He did-- get those feelings, eventually, and I-- I mean, he wasn’t alone in that but-- it wasn’t _that_ part of him that took such good care of me. I know it seems like-- because it was sex, it would have to be the romantic Quentin, but _It was my friend who did that._ Before all the romance kicked in. He saw where I was broken, and he… _mended_ me. He made me feel _safe._ He made sex fun again, and wholesome, and sweet, and beautiful, just for its own sake, not because anyone _wants_ anything from you, and if I have _ever_ done that for you, you have _him_ to thank.”

“You do, you always do,” Rand said, and kissed his shoulder.

Eliot tipped his head to the side to lean it on Rand’s. “And then Ari came into our lives, and she just-- has taught me so much about love, and... it’s made me better about that part of it, too. Letting people in, not being so on guard about what they might want from me, she just-- _gives,_ endlessly, and I’m trying to-- learn that. And you know, Q once said destiny is bullshit but I’m not so sure, because this all just-- feels like it’s the path I’m supposed to be on, that we’re all supposed to be on, like everything that’s happened, it’s-- it’s all for the best.”

“Oh, El, I don’t know, this doesn’t sound like it was the _best,”_ Rand pointed out, “but you three, you took it all and made it into something beautiful, and that is what makes it _into_ the best.”

Eliot looked at him fondly. “Pretty _and_ smart,” he said with a smile. “But now, _now_ do you see why I am so happy for them? This thing, with Quentin, I love him so much but it’s not-- It’s just-- bigger than all that, like Quentin always says.” He gave a wry chuckle. “I just heard him say that today, to people we barely know. Because it’s just-- a fact, a perfectly boring fact about us, that we have a friendship that is... as big as the _universe._ And anyway, after what he’s given me, after what he’s done for me, I just feel-- totally blissed out, that he has Ari, just-- I’m not losing _anything._ I’m _so_ glad I can give them this. That I can give _him_ this. For what he gave to me. Does that… make sense?”

“Of course it does,” Rand assured him. He took the handkerchief that Eliot had been twisting in his hands and dried the last of the tears from his face. _“My bounty is as boundless as the sea,”_ he began to quote from the Book of Umber, _“my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite. For love is_ _an ever fixed-mark, that looks on tempests, and is never shaken.”_

Eliot blinked at him with wide eyes.

“I studied that, I just-- never thought I’d really understand it,” Rand admitted, “until I met you. And Quentin. And Ari. _An ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken._ No matter what. That’s you.”

“You’re going to make me cry again,” Eliot croaked. 

“Well, I didn’t mean to do that. Can I-- hug you?”

“I really wish you would.”

Rand put his arms out and Eliot leaned into him and they sank into an embrace. “Thank you,” he whispered. “for telling me that. I feel like… I just care about you so much, El, and sometimes that’s romantic, too, but… maybe it’s just a speck in everything else I love about you. I know I’m not-- _him,_ and maybe we aren’t-- as big as the _universe,_ but I feel-- like our friendship is as big as a _house,_ at any rate, and this, what we do together, is just a small room in that house. And I know we might have to-- shut the door on this room? Someday. But we will still have all the rest of the house, even then. Is that-- okay?”

Eliot pulled back to look at him with surprise. “Yes, Rand, _god,_ yes, I feel the same way, and not just a house, a huge _castle,_ ” he added with a touch of grandeur. He put a kiss on Rand’s lips, soft and sweet. “And you know, you don’t have to compare yourself like that, it’s-- this thing with Q is-- not typical for _anyone._ It’s-- we’ve just been through so much hell, and carried each other through it, and I don’t think that can-- or should-- be replicated, or we’d all be insane.” He shrugged. “I like what we have, you and me, our FWB,” he added with a grin, “and I like that-- that I can be with you and feel good, the way it should be. And that’s not _just_ Quentin, that’s you, too. You are so good to me, and you’ve been a good friend. To me, and to Quentin, too, and Ari, and-- I just can’t-- thank you enough for that.”

“It has been my pleasure, Eliot, and not just the pleasure part,” Rand grinned. His throat began to clench as he tried to find the right words. “It is my honor to know you, Eliot Waugh. My distinct and unearned honor. And if I’ve been good to you, well, it’s because I know how lucky I am.”

Eliot kissed him, then, deep and loving, and then they crawled back to lay together, this time each on their sides, so they could look at each other.

“This is why-- why you’re throwing this huge wedding for them?” Rand asked.

“Mm-hmm,” Eliot agreed. “Oh,” he added with a groan, “and there’s still so much to do, this month flew by so fast. MJ needs to finish designing the arch, and Jenna still needs to send off for the fabric, we only _just_ got designs picked today, and--” he stifled a yawn. “I’m sorry, it’s just been, well, more than I’ve tried to do all at once in a long time. I guess I’m getting old, like you,” he teased and pushed at Rand’s shoulder. 

“No, it’s just that you’re a growing boy, and you need your sleepies,” Rand smirked, and reached for the candle only to see Eliot put it out with a tut and then relight it and put it out again. Rand laughed, ”C’mere, Brat-- is it, okay? That I call you that?” 

“Of course, Father,” Eliot snuggled into his chest again as they had been before. “That’s not a _name,_ that’s just _true._ You might still be under my spell, for all we know.”

“I am most certain that I am, my friend,” Rand sighed, and they both drifted off to sleep.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Note: (I had a note here checking to make sure comments were still working, and one of our kind Villagers responded, so we’re good!)
> 
> First off, yes, those are two Shakespeare lines awkwardly smushed together, because besides being a plagiarist, Umber is also a poor editor. He just doesn’t get the poetry of it.
> 
> I’m so sorry to do this to our sweet son, but can you just imagine what sex with Martin Chatwin was like? Do you think he could hide his true nature? 
> 
> Oh, and I like Fen a lot, and I am really looking forward to her character in season 5, but I also very much dislike how the writers made Eliot having to have sex with her into a “whomp, whomp” joke and not recognizing how creepy that was. Check out this well-written post on this subject if you’ve finished Season 4 (THERE ARE S4 FINALE SPOILERS IN THE TITLE, so don’t even click if you haven’t finished S4.) https://sparklingspice.tumblr.com/post/186963151281/the-magicians-queer-representation-or-why 
> 
> I am pushing the friendship side of their relationship for these chapters, for reasons, but don’t let that scare you. Peaches and plums, motherfuckers.
> 
> Sorry this was late, there are many ways for Eliot to tell his story, and I know, because I'm pretty sure I wrote them all. But I made it on Monday, still!
> 
> See you next Monday, have a great week!  
> <3  
> Trillian
> 
> PS I don’t know if this will ever happen, but my husband really wants me to write a murder mystery where Mama, Arielle, and Rand leave the village and solve a crime. So there’s track laid here for Mr. Farragut to turn up dead after Jenna left with all her things, so she’s the prime suspect, and Mama goes to Town to clear her name. :) If I ever do write it, I’ll put it in the Mamaverse.


	33. No One Told You It Was Gonna Be This Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MJ gets an offer. Wren gets a roommate. Arielle gets a reminder that you bring your past with you.

“Guys! MJ fixed the table!” Arielle exclaimed, as Eliot came out of the house with a platter of dinner for their guests, Quentin following behind with dishes.

“Oh, thank _god,”_ Eliot said, “I can finally eat without holding up a table at the same time.”

“Is that why you kept zoning out at dinner?” Arielle smirked. “I thought you were high.”

“Well, if you didn’t cut your food like you were trying to kill it all over again, it wouldn’t be so difficult,” Eliot retorted.

“It doesn’t matter now, it’s fixed,” Quentin pointed out. “Thanks, MJ. What was wrong with it?”

“It was shearing laterally-- I mean, like something was moving the top horizontally, longways, something heavy,” MJ said as she dropped her tools in her bag and took a seat.

Arielle looked guiltily at Quentin, who was pursing his lips in an attempt not to grin. 

Eliot looked from one to the other and frowned. _“Seriously?_ We _eat_ on this table.”

“Well, _you_ have,” Quentin pointed out, which made Arielle squeal and point at Eliot accusatorially, and all three of them burst into laughter.

MJ and Wren looked at each other, confused.

“Sorry, y’all,” Arielle said to their guests, and forced her smile down to turn to the men with a stern look. “Boys. In-jokes are rude at the table. Mom rule.”

“Oh, well then,” Wren said, “I guess I’d better not ask for _the giggity-bob_ to _do the gods-damn thing already,”_ and this caused the girl to snort and then belly laugh. The dog burst into giggles. “Sorry, sorry,” he said to their hosts as he regained his composure, waving a paw. “Workshop talk.”

“Wren, would you be more comfortable with your plate on the-- down below, or up on the table?” Quentin said as he began to serve up the steak Eliot had cut up for the dog.

“Table, please, I’m trying to get used to it,” Wren said as he scrabbled into a chair. “MJ, did you bring-- oh, thanks.”

MJ had already produced a wooden ring that she began to work onto the dog’s paw. When she had it on-- _his wrist?_ Arielle thought, _do dogs have wrists?--_ she reached for a fork and fitted into a notch in the ring and gave it a turn until it gave a tiny click. “Good?”

Wren waved his front leg to test it. “Yes, thanks,” he said, and then aimed it at the plate. “Or um, turn it up just a little?” MJ made the adjustment and gave his head a pat. 

The Coldwater-Waughs sat with open mouths at this, Quentin frozen with a plate he was just about to put in front of the girl, but she turned nonchalantly and accepted it, and Wren gracefully stabbed a piece of steak-- special ordered for the non-sentient beef-- and popped it into his mouth.

“Does the M stand for McGuyver?” Eliot said in wonder. “How did you _do_ that?”

MJ shrugged. “You got the utensils from Hund, right? He only sells one kind, so they all fit.”

“No, I mean, you just… _invented_ that? You’re a genius!” Eliot exclaimed. 

MJ shrugged again, but a small smile played around her mouth and Arielle could tell she was well pleased with the praise.

“Forks make eating so much quieter,” Wren said, with a hint of judgement in his voice. “I’ve been practicing eating at table with MJ and I was the only one slurping because I was eating right from the plate and I thought, wow, I mean, if it’s weird eating with _her_ then how would I fit in at like, a real dinner party? And then the next day she had this for me, and it’s working pretty well. I totally blend in,” Wren said proudly, though a dog with a fork was certainly the oddest thing Arielle had ever seen.

“Can I look at it after you’re done eating, Wren?” Quentin said. “I’d like to know more about the mechanism.”

“Now, Q, it’s probably a trade secret,” Arielle said. “If she tells people how she did it, she won’t be the only one that makes them.”

MJ shrugged again. “Probably shouldn’t be. Lots of people might want them, and I can’t make them all.”

“I’m hereby placing an order for a set for the tavern. However many you feel like making,” Eliot said. “I don’t know much yet about apprenticeships, but if you had an invention that you were willing to share with your master, wouldn’t that be a selling point?”

“Maybe. But I mean…” MJ trailed off, as if the rest were obvious.

“We make our own rules in the face of the chaos of the gods,” Arielle said sagely. “And that includes the fact that our gods are men and gave this world to men to run. So short-sighted. But we women, we are smarter than that. We just need to take our place by their side.”

Eliot looked at her curiously. 

“What? You got a problem with that?” Arielle said, though she knew he didn’t. But she had been rattling off her CODE PINK wisdom and she needed to get him away from that.

“No, of course not,” Eliot shrugged and went back to his food. “I just can’t get used to a religion based on ignoring your god’s asinine rules. Where I’m from it’s obey and shut up about it.”

“Well, it’s like that here too, unless you’re _woke._ Like Rand. And that’s more common than you’d think,” she said lightly. “The icebox kept these steaks really fresh, El. I didn’t think they’d make it two days until our dinner.” She hoped getting Eliot to think about his magic would throw him off, and sure enough he preened a little.

“Mm-hmm,” Wren agreed. “I’ve never had it like this, we always get it dried, at home. Does the recipe have a name I should know, Mr. Eliot?”

“No, just steak,” Eliot replied. “Salt and pepper and cooked over the fire to medium rare. That’s how it’s a little gray around the edges and rosy in the middle.”

“Rosy in the middle. Got it,” Wren said happily, and forked up another piece. “How do you know what it’s like in the middle before you cut it up?”

“You press on it and see if it’s _firm, with a little give,”_ Quentin said in a strange accent, catching Eliot’s eye. Stranger still, Arielle never knew him to know a thing about cooking.

“And what if someone wants it cooked more than that?” she asked, wondering how much he knew about this.

Eliot and Quentin looked at each other with twinkling eyes, took a breath, and said in unison in the same strange accent, [ “We ask them politely yet firmly to leave,” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42GaHU4txpc) and broke into laughter.

“I can’t believe we actually got to do that!” Quentin cackled.

Arielle rolled her eyes at another in-joke of theirs, but she wondered, _if Mom rules aren’t working with grown men, how will I handle a kid? I need to step up my game._ But since she didn’t know how, she changed the subject. “How are you enjoying your training, Wren? Or does Eliot just keep you busy with wedding stuff?”

Wren held up a paw as he swallowed. “Well, that’s the thing, Mistress Ari,” he said excitedly. “I’m not just training to be a _sophisticate_ now, I’m training to be an _event planner_ too! For a job! And then I can you know, be a sophisticate as a _lifestyle.”_

Quentin raised an eyebrow at Eliot. 

“Well, I mean, it’s _true,”_ Eliot said. “Being adorable and witty rarely pays the bills. But you think _I’m_ planning this wedding? I’m _leading_ Team Wedding but this dog is like a four-legged planning app. I’ve started calling him Siri.”

“Yes, I’m thinking if I ever need a stage name it should be Siri Bean…” Wren mused, which made Quentin snort wine through his nose. 

“Q, you have the worst timing,” Arielle laughed as she dabbed up wine from the table with her napkin.

“I know enough now not to drink while _he’s_ talking,” Quentin gestured to Eliot, who smirked proudly. “I just need to add _Siri Bean_ over here to the list.”

“Where would you need a stage name?” MJ asked.

“In Town. I-- I hadn’t gotten a chance to tell you, yet, MJ, but-- see, there aren’t event planners, like at _all,_ it just always goes to stewards and tavern owners and stuff, right? So I can’t really apprentice anywhere. So I’m just going to… move to Town and… see if I can… you’re mad,” he groaned regretfully, though to Arielle the girl’s sullen face looked exactly the same. “Don’t be mad! Mr. Eliot, don’t wait anymore, tell her!”

Eliot put down his fork. “MJ, I was going to wait until our after-dinner--”

 _“Digestifs,_ that’s what after-dinner drinks are called,” Wren interjected in low voice with a paw on MJ’s arm. 

“Indeed, Bean, but it’s not polite to interrupt,” Eliot said, and then turned to the girl. “Our friend Barry has a brother who has a… friend, Seren, who is the woodworker in Town. Those designs I asked you to make? I don’t really need the items. Well, maybe some of them, we’ll talk. But I sent the drawings off to Seren and explained your… predicament, and he has no problem taking you on as an apprentice. He had a _bit_ of a problem with me insisting you get _paid_ for the position, but we are in negotiations. In the meantime, your little dog-fork-thing there may well seal the deal. If you want it, of course.”

MJ stopped chewing and stared at him.

“And we can live together, MJ!” Wren exclaimed. “Mr. Eliot says where he’s from dogs and people live together all the time, just as friends. Mr. Eliot says _dogs are man’s best friend,_ but you mean women, too, right?” He looked to Eliot who gave him a nod, so he continued. “And you’re… well, I mean, you’re the best friend I have, and I mean, I think maybe I’m the best friend you have too, right? So why not?”

“Yeah, I mean, yeah. Of course you’re my best friend, Wren,” she said with a grin, and scratched his ears. 

“Wren…” Eliot prompted.

“Oh, right,” Wren said. “So. Here’s the thing. Mr. Eliot says I need to tell you this upfront, so. I could really use your help, with grooming, and dressing, and stuff. Not the mud thing again,” he hastened to add, “nothing super hard, but like, maybe painting my claws? And um, brushing me, and stuff? And I’ll do whatever you need, whatever I can do. And when I get my name out there and get my business going, I can help with expenses. It’s just that, like Mr. Eliot says, I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage, so we need to like, work this out, so it’s fair. Although I guess it might not be fair, right away, until I can get my job going. But that’s why Mr. Eliot is negotiating your payment.”

Arielle saw the gears turning in MJ’s head, but the girl wasn’t speaking. Arielle held out her hands, palms up. “Hold up, hold up, boys. You two have sure cooked up a mess of plans for her.”

“I said _if you want,”_ Eliot pointed out. 

“Yeah, this is us asking her!” Wren huffed. 

“So much telling in your asking…” Arielle mused. “MJ, have you gotten enough dinner? I could use a walk while they whip up their digest-sleeves or whatever. Would you like to come with?”

MJ looked at her gratefully, and nodded.

“Need the pipe?” Eliot said.

“El, she’s barely seventeen, give it a rest,” Arielle sighed, and rose. “C’mon MJ, there’s shortcut over here.”

 

*

After the ladies started off down the path, Wren turned to Eliot. “Is she… going to say yes, do you think?”

Eliot shrugged. “I don’t know, Bean. Maybe we did get a little ahead of her.”

“Girls are difficult,” Wren said as he tossed his ears. “Not like us guys.”

Quentin laughed. “I’m sorry, have you _met_ Eliot?” he said, and caught the napkin his friend threw at his face. 

“Did I miss supper? Dammit, I did,” a familiar voice grumbled. 

“Mama, darling!” Eliot exclaimed. “Sit, sit,” he added as he pulled up a chair for her. “I didn’t cook your steak yet, since I got your rabbit that you were held up.”

“You know what? I just need a drink. That damn bridge over the river washed out again, and I thought the carriage would never make it home,” she said with an exasperated sigh as she sank into her chair.

Eliot poured a tankard from the wineskin. “Was it worth it? Did you get the liquor man sorted out?”

Mama waved a hand. “Yes and no. It’s all settled, but we still have to pay the higher price. Apparently Whitespire is imposing new taxes, so it really is out of his control. I thought maybe he just needed a good talkin’ to,” she added to Quentin and Wren, “and I launched into one before I realized it wouldn’t help. Poor man,” she laughed heartily. “But he was ever so apologetic, and so I got to pull the other string instead.”

“What does that mean, Mama?” Wren asked with his head cocked to the side.

“It means that he’s going to start asking around with his customers to see who needs a very smart event planner,” Mama said with a twinkle in her eye, and the dog squealed and jumped down out of his chair, tail wagging fast, to lick her hand. “Now, it might not turn into anything, but we shall see. In the meantime, you _have_ a gig, you’re in the middle of planning this wedding and you and I need to talk. Without the groom and… where is the bride?”

“Took a walk with MJ,” Quentin said. “El had good news from Seren--”

Mama nodded. “And it was a lot to take in? I imagine so. It’s not easy to shift everything you thought you knew about your life and where it was headed. You boys know that better’n anyone.” She patted Wren’s head. “But a friend by your side can make all the difference, as these two can also attest. You could learn a lot about that from them.”

Wren looked expectantly at Eliot. 

“Oh, no, I’m outsourcing you to Quentin for that,” Eliot said. “I only know how to be a fabulous monster who found people who put up with me.” He stood. “Mama, are you ready for that steak?”

She nodded as she reached for the wineskin to refill her cup. 

“Back in a mo’,” he said, and went into the house.

Wren was staring expectantly at Quentin, now, looking more confused than ever. 

“It’s all lies, Wren, he’s the best friend anyone could have. You should have seen him with Margo, his best friend in school, they were absolutely joined at the hip,” Quentin said. “And we don’t _put up with him,_ we love him just like he is, even if he doesn’t believe that.”

“But how does he, like, make your life better?”   

“You want to be that for MJ,” Mama nodded. “Well, Q, tell him what a good friend does for a person.”

Quentin sighed and retied his bun. “You know, I don’t want to sound uncaring? But the first thing I think of is that we split life’s to-do list. Maybe that’s because we’re roommates, but you will be too, so, it’s relevant, I think? Making a home together, a life together, every day more little things come up that have to be dealt with, and just knowing you have someone by your side to help deal with it all makes it all more bearable? And you know, I had a friend growing up, Julia, and it was like that with us, too. You think it’s all going to be like-- confessions of the soul? That makes it deep. But it’s more like-- all the little things add up? _Ugh we have to study for a test tomorrow_ or _my parents got in another fight_ or endless discussions about how the tv series doesn’t live up to the book, or whatever? And with Eliot, and Ari-- she’s my best friend, too-- it’s all the stuff here, making this place into a home, it takes a lot of constant work, a whole string of little things to deal with, but everything that comes up doesn’t just land on one of us, it lands on all of us, so it feels-- lighter? Easier to cope with. And then the little things become in-jokes, like the one you had with MJ earlier about the workshop talk or whatever? And memories. Sometimes things you tease each other about, give each other shit about. And sometimes things you don’t bring up because it’ll hurt? I guess. And after a while it just adds up to your _life,_ and this person, or people in our case, gets all wound all up inside that, and that’s-- where the love comes from? But you know that, you’ve been sharing your life with MJ. She made you that without you even asking her for it,” Quentin motioned to the fork attachment. “Speaking of which, would you like me to take it off now?”

Wren nodded and held out his paw for the assistance. “Thanks. But, um… Mr. Eliot said you went through hell together and survived,” he said. “That sounds like more than just little life stuff.”

“That’s true…” Quentin said. He worked the ring off of the dog’s paw and began to turn the fork but hesitated, not knowing for sure how it worked, and set it down carefully on the table. “But we were in-- special circumstances? We still are, I guess, with the puzzle and all. People shouldn’t have to-- go through what we have. No one should.” He sighed. “But life will test you in less dramatic ways than we went through. The important thing is to _be_ there, even for the little stuff, because if you miss that, then-- you miss _life,_ really. Be there and just-- share it. That’s my advice. And forgive, be generous, don’t assume the worst if they make a mistake or have a bad day, and try to help each other get through. That’s all anyone can ask for, really. Someone who makes it all worth it, and makes it easier.”

Mama nodded in approval. “Wren, you picked a fine team to apprentice to.”

“Yeah… I just wish MJ was here to hear it too,” Wren said.

“Oh, I imagine Ari’s getting her all straightened out,” Mama said wisely. “Ah, _finally,_ food,” she deadpanned as Eliot came out of the house with her plate. “The service here is terrible.”

“Feel free to write a letter to the management,” Eliot said dryly. “We could use more kindling for the fire.”

 _“You_ know pyromancy, so I expect to see my letter framed over the door,” Mama retorted. “Not gonna write one for Q, though,” she added with a wink. “Don’t want to advertise that you can get good advice with your drink anywhere but my tavern.”

“Oh, good, feels dodged, then,” Eliot smirked as he sat, “thank god.” He leaned into Wren and added in a low voice with a grin, “Never let your chickens see you really _care,_ Bean. It goes to their heads.” He raised a hand without looking up, and the napkin Quentin threw froze in the air, and then gently folded itself and landed neatly in Eliot’s lap. “Oh, good, my napkin has returned,” he said grandly. _“Merci, mon ami,”_ he said, raising his cup to Quentin in salute. “You see, putty in my hands,” he purred out of the side of his mouth to Wren, which got a snort from Mama and a groan from Quentin. 

“I take it back,” the younger man said. “We _do_ put up with him.”

 

*

Arielle wondered if MJ would ever speak as they made their way down the River Road towards New House. Quentin had a spot down by the river that he liked, but he’d never made off-limits to anyone else the way Eliot had with the Rock.

“So…” Arielle began, “Look, I’m not going to bullshit you or warm you up with small talk. You don’t seem like the type who wants all that.”

MJ shrugged. 

“The menfolk get a bit carried away sometimes,” Arielle continued, “thinking they can solve everything. But all I want is to know what you want. I know you like woodwork. What do you like about it?”

MJ considered. “I like the feel of it in my hands, the smoothness when I have a piece all turned and sanded down. And I like… the transformation. Taking a thing and making it into another thing. It’s… well, I was going to say like magic but I guess you see real magic from those guys, but… it’s like regular people magic, I guess.”

“I like that,” Arielle said with a smile. “Baking is like that too. All that flour and sugar and bits all coming together to make something that didn’t exist just hours ago. And for me it’s the smell more than the feel, because, well, that’s how baking works I guess,” she laughed. “Isn’t it nice to have something you love sort of… all around you? And to be _good_ at something, the way it _feels_ to do something you’re really good at, like you’re in the groove of it… there just isn’t anything else like it. I don’t talk to the guys about this much because the thing they feel that way about is magic, and they act like no one can ever understand because that’s so _special_ or whatever. But they don’t get regular people magic.”

“I don’t think Wren did either, until he started training with Eliot. He’s been practicing all the courtly bows and stuff, when to do what kind of bow and to what status of person… I don’t get it but he’s so tickled by it, it’s like magic for him,” MJ said. “How does Eliot know all that?”

Arielle paused. This opening up was going well and she didn’t want to shut it down by being evasive. But she also couldn’t explain what seemed unreal even to her-- that Wren was the only person in history to receive one-on-one training in courtly manners by an actual High King of Fillory. She shrugged. “He reads a lot. You and Wren are really close, huh?”

"Oh, there’s nothing weird about it, we’re just friends,” MJ hastened to explain. 

Relations between species were taboo in Fillory, but Arielle wouldn’t have minded. Something Eliot left out at the table was that Barry’s brother was romantically involved with the human woodworker Seren, which might be why he was more progressive about taking on a female apprentice. Arielle hoped to Ember that Eliot hadn’t actually blackmailed him. “However you love someone is absolutely none of my business,” she said.

They had reached the riverbank, and the light from the moons sparkled on the water and lit the whole area. Quentin had moved some spare chairs down there for fishing, and they took a seat, their feet splashing in the shallow water in front of them.

“I do like to…” MJ began hesitatingly, but Arielle gave her an encouraging look and she continued, “Okay, this is weird but like, I’m not _attracted_ to him at all but I do like dressing him up, and I like to... cuddle him, and pet him. He’s very… soft.”

“Oh honey, I totally get that, that’s how I feel about Eliot. He’s just so pretty and so nice to snuggle with, and don’t tell him but sometimes I just wish I could lay down with him and kiss and cuddle with him. [ But sexy times? Not my type.” ](https://www.reddit.com/r/brakebills/comments/aoy7zr/this_show_made_me_realize_something_avout_myself/egbd45g/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x)

“Do you think he would cuddle with you, if you asked him?”

“Well, I mean, yeah?” Arielle shrugged. “But here’s the thing, I feel like Quentin misses that part of their friendship, they don’t really… do that, anymore? And I wouldn’t want to like… rub it in. If I had that and he didn’t. So I just stay away from all that.”

MJ frowned. “Are friendships always so complicated? I haven’t… had one, before Wren, and… I don’t know, maybe we’re doing it wrong? Or we’re not really that close? Because we just kind of… fell together, and up until tonight, with him moving and the apprenticeship and all, it was just really _easy.”_

“Oh, no, that’s how it’s supposed to be,” Arielle reassured her. “That’s how it is, really, with us. We really love being around each other, and most of the time that’s pretty simple. It’s just that, the longer you’re around your friend, the more you start to understand where they’re delicate. And you learn to take care of those parts of them.”  

“Yeah, Quentin said it takes time,” MJ agreed. “But I don’t know if we’ve had enough yet to go run off to Town together.”

“Okay, well, let’s talk about that. Just you, though. What do you think about the apprenticeship? Is that something you want to do?”

“I mean, I guess I’d like to meet Seren, first,” MJ shrugged. “I don’t know, I just knew that I couldn’t get one, and so I never really seriously thought about it. I _would_ like to learn more… you know, the last time I thought about it was when I got this cut here--” she showed a scabbed slice between her thumb and forefinger, “-- and I thought, if I could learn better ways of doing stuff maybe I wouldn’t get hurt so often.”

Arielle flashed back to the night of the candlelight picnic, the one when she and Quentin had  told their stories to each other, and he had said, “If I could just learn to love like you do, Ari, maybe I wouldn’t get hurt so often.” It had stabbed at her heart, and she loved him a little more then, just as she liked this girl more now. “I think that’s very smart, MJ,” she said. “So it sounds like, if you get on with Seren okay, you’re in?”

“Yeah, sure,” MJ shrugged, and grinned. 

“He’s… um, I mean I don’t care at all but you should know, I guess, in case you do? He’s… dating a bear.” 

“That’s…” MJ frowned, and then her eyes grew wide. “But how do they…?”

“I have no idea and I’m not going to ask. And neither are you. They love each other and that’s all that matters. We make our own rules. Agreed?”

“Oh, yeah, I mean, yeah. Of course. My best friend is a dog, and I guess I’m making my own rules if I’m going to try this, so, yeah. Sure.” 

“Good. And how do you feel about leaving home? I know that can be hard.” She thought back to the frantic packing of the camp, but shook it off.

The grin fell a little. “I mean, not really? Yes, I’ll miss my mom and dad, but… I also was feeling bad about never leaving, like everyone else does? So this is actually a relief, in a way.”

“Okay, good. Now, Wren. Up for having a roommate? You said you like dressing him, so that part isn’t a problem?”

“Not at all. I don’t even know why I like it,” MJ giggled, “I don’t like doing it to myself, getting dressed up or anything, but I love getting him ready, I don’t know why. Maybe just because he’s having so much fun.”

“You have this friend thing down, MJ,” Arielle pointed out. “That’s a big part of it, sharing in your life, the things that make you happy, but also being there for each other when things are shitty, like when my aunt died. Q and El were there for me every step of that.”

MJ nodded. “I knew Biddy. Sorry to see her pass away.”

“Thanks. She was… one of a kind.”

“Was she, though? Because…” MJ trailed off.

“What?”

MJ looked at her seriously, and asked in a whisper, “CODE PINK?”

Arielle froze. No one was supposed to know about that. They had all worked so hard, gone through so much, broken up their family and went to ground, all so that no one could ever know. “What… do you know about that?”

MJ kept her voice low and leaned in to her. “Biddy had a table, in the dining room. Underneath the top, someone had burned in the words CODE PINK. She had me come sand it off. She said I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, ever, but I mean, it’s you, and…”

Arielle nodded. If Biddy trusted her enough for that, she could too. Sister Shenna, as she knew her, was always a good judge of character. “Did she say anything else?” she asked cautiously.

“What you said, tonight. _We make our own rules in the face of the chaos of the gods._ And she talked to me, over tea. She said sort of what you said, that women should do what we want and all that. She called it Lady Power. And then she got a little funny, I think from the stuff she was pouring in her tea, and she said--”

A twig snapped, and Arielle held a hand up. “Stop. Stop right now. We can talk about this later, okay? We aren’t alone out here, you know?” She looked around the trees but didn’t see anything moving, no eyes staring from the green. She felt them, though, like she always did, except when she was with her Magicians.

MJ nodded, with a serious and thoughtful look. 

“Anyway, we’re here to talk about _you,”_ Arielle went on, louder and more cheerful than before. “And Wren. So Quentin taught me this saying, it’s from one of their movies-- _ride or die._ Well, he said it was from a movie but Eliot knew it from a much older song, but anyway. It means that you’re friends to the end, no matter what. And some friends are like that, me and El and Q, you know. But it doesn’t _have_ to be that way. Sometimes you can ride with a friend until, like, it’s your stop, your time to get off and find another ride. I’m not saying-- oh shit, I think I’m messing this up. What I’m trying to say is that there’s no harm in going off with Wren, you can go have some fun in Town and if you don’t want to stay you can always come home. Even if people have made plans for you, it’s still your life. And you can always change it, if you need to, if you want to. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“Do you think Wren and I won’t work out? As… ride or die?” MJ frowned.

“I have no idea. Do you feel that way about him?”

“Not… yet? But I think I could. Maybe.”

“It does take time, and getting to know someone, both of which you will get from an adventure like this,” Arielle pointed out. “Maybe this is what your friendship needs. I just didn’t want you to feel like things are so… dire. Nothing is set in stone, you’re young, and things can change. And you’ll change too, and if you listen to your own heart you’ll know what to do. What is your heart telling you right now?”

“That… I’d like to see Town, and learn stuff, and see what Wren can pull off with this event planner thing. I keep seeing this image,” MJ added with a grin, “of me getting him dressed and him freaking out because tonight’s the Big Night, whatever it is, and he keeps smacking me in the face with his tail while I try to button his vest thingy…”

“Oh god it’s another Eliot, how will the world survive?” Arielle chuckled, and patted the girl’s arm. “It sounds like a nice life.”

“You’re a nice lady,” MJ said, and blushed as she looked up at Arielle through her lashes. 

 _Oh,_ Arielle thought, surprised. _Oops._ “Well, we should get back,” she said, loud and chipper, as she stood. “It sounds like you know what you want to do?”

“Yeah, okay, yeah,” MJ said, and gave her head a quick shake. When she lifted it, Arielle was relieved to see the bit of crush was out of her eyes. “Town or bust!” She grinned. “And maybe _ride or die,_ if it works out that way.”

“You got your head on straight,” Arielle agreed, and they headed back down the path to the road.

 

*

“Goodnight, friends!” Arielle called out as their three guests walked into the darkness of the River Road.

“Goodnight, moon,” Quentin chuckled, and slipped an arm around her waist as they walked back to the house.

Eliot was clearing the table. “Cards? Or were we going to rehearse?”

“I think… we need to have a family meeting,” Arielle said. “In our room.”

 

*

Arielle shut the door behind them and glanced up to see the familiar shimmer of the wards closing around the room. The men stopped, unsure, but Arielle climbed onto the bed and took the middle spot. “Well, get comfy,” she said, as she motioned to the bed. “This may take awhile.”

“Is… everything…” Quentin looked terrified. 

“It’s fine, Q, it’s-- it’s not anything with us-- really, I mean, we’re fine. Right now. Just sit. I’m not like, calling off the wedding or anything,” Arielle reassured him. “We just-- need to talk about some stuff. Sit, _please,_ y’all, I’m starting to feel weird, here.” 

Quentin took his side of the bed next to her, holding her hand, while Eliot turned himself the other way, head propped up on a hand near her shins, knees to her ribs, and feet politely hanging off their bed. 

Arielle took a breath. “You two have a lot of secrets. And I don’t ask a lot of questions. Because… I know what that’s like. It’s the strangest thing, if no one ever brings it up, or presses, then it’s the easiest thing in the world. Pretend it isn’t true, pretend it isn’t happening. But if it comes up at all, it’s… the greatest burden, it can tear you apart.”

Quentin held her hand tighter. “Sweetheart, if you need to know more--”

Eliot began to rub her shin, and his hazel eyes were boring into hers, reading her soul. “It’s not about us. Is it, Ari?” he said.

“No, El, it’s not about you.”

“Your aunts were… not your aunts?” he asked.

“No.”

“Are you in danger?” Eliot’s eyes flashed.

“Maybe. I-- don’t think so? Anymore. But.”

“What do we need to do to protect you?”

“I don’t know.”

Quentin frowned, his gears turning. “We need to know more than that, Ari. So we can help.”

“I know. That’s why we’re here,” she sighed. “I’m just-- it’s been so long, that I’ve kept this secret, it feels like-- maybe it’s not even real. Especially since… Shenna died. And I started this whole new life with you, and now… I’m getting a new name. Again. Legit, this time. And I want so badly for that to be it, my new life, no looking back, but I can’t-- I can’t marry you, be a family with both of you, I can’t do this without-- being totally honest. It’s just _really fucking hard.”_ She squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’ve got you, sweetie, we’ve got you, just. Start with your name, I guess?” Quentin asked tentatively, and her heart broke that her love had never known it.

“Ari--” she began, but she choked on it. It would be the first time she’d said it in ten years. “Arisene. We took a chance this time, got closer to the original…” She opened her eyes and looked into Quentin’s, which were sad and fond, like he was disappointed. “But I like Arielle better, actually, and I like _being_ Arielle, _your_ Arielle, your Disney Princess, and in a couple of months I will be, forever, Arielle Coldwater-Waugh. And the way you call me Ari, it’s… comforting. _Please_ don’t take that away.”

“Never, Ari,” Eliot said, and kissed her knee. “The… _sisters_ did that? Gave you a new name?”

 _Godsdamn Eliot never misses a godsdamn trick,_ Arielle thought. _Fuck._ Not that she wasn’t there to tell them this right now anyway, but she couldn’t help but kick herself for dropping hints before. She knew better than that. “The wards… they’re solid, right?”

“Like you’re in a black hole,” Quentin reassured her. “I promise. Have you heard El snore once since we renovated?”

Eliot glared at him. 

“That’s true,” Arielle chuckled, and rocked her foot into Eliot’s shoulder. “Okay. The Sisters, yes. They were priestesses of Ember, but they had sort of... detached themselves, they rejected the patriarchy of the Church and kind of… went rogue. They lived in the woods, in their own compound, away from everyone, and to be perfectly honest they were completely nutty and wonderful and colorful and ridiculous and I don’t think the Church ever noticed or cared. But it _meant_ something to them, to stand for their beliefs, to live by them, to be free and independent. And that had its own... _perfection…”_ She trailed off, picking at a loose thread on her skirt.

“What happened to them?” Quentin asked.

“I happened. A little girl, lost in the woods, landed on their doorstep and blew up their whole world.” She sat up, letting go of Quentin’s hand, which slid around to her back instead. She pulled her legs up to sit cross-legged, and took a deep breath. “I was five. I remember a big butterfly that shined purple and gold. I remember being lost. I remember Sister Bea picking me up. I remember the cucumber sandwich she gave me, and her cleaning my scraped knee. That’s the only thing for certain that I know.” She took another breath and exhaled it sharply, frustrated once again. “My village, we-- never found it.”

“What do you mean? No one claimed you?” Eliot frowned.

“No, I mean, we went back, through the woods, in the direction I’d come from. We walked a full day, as I said I’d done. And there we found a large clearing, a huge circle of completely flattened land. The village was just… gone. It’s not far from here, actually, I’ve come back around, finally. It’s just over the hills to the north. Our compound was to the northwest of here. But that’s all gone, too, now...”

“The village just… disappeared?” Quentin asked incredulously.

Arielle nodded. “The Sisters didn’t know what to think, at first. I was their only witness, and I was five and I couldn’t tell them much. I think I could get from my house to the town square if I’d really had to, I’d been with my dad before, but otherwise I didn’t know anything about, well, anything. Our village or where it was in relation to other places. So they investigated. Sister Tressa went to ask around in Farther Town and some of the other villages, and yes, there had been a village there. Rumor was they had pissed of a witch, and people didn’t want to talk about it. I guess they were afraid. So the Sisters adopted me, and I lived at the compound until I was 14.”

An aching love filled her heart as a grin spread across her face. “And it was _so fun,_ by Ember--” she continued, “--there were all kinds of dress-up days and they made up their own holidays and tested out traditions for them that were _never_ fucking traditional because they never did them twice,” Arielle laughed. “And we had a jug band and a group that put on plays and all-night dances to honor the moons, and Swearing Rants where you stood up in front of everyone and raged about whatever was eating at you and tried to use as many swear words as possible and make everyone laugh. It was insane and non-stop and silly and I loved every one of them and every minute I had there.” Her eyes began to well up with tears. “I wish you could have seen it.”

“I do, too,” Quentin said, and pressed a kiss to her temple.

Eliot reached for her hand, and she gave it. “What happened to all that?”

Arielle sighed and rubbed at her eyes with her free hand. “Sister Tressa was in Farther Town again, she had lived there and had connections for trade. We got a letter back from her, she said everyone was acting strange, afraid, and she didn’t know why except somehow I had come up. The little girl who was the lone survivor. She said she’d write again when she knew more. And then…” It was hard to catch her breath. The _panic,_ she remembered the panic, how it washed over everyone as it was washing over her now, remembering. 

“Deep breaths, Ari,” Quentin said, and kissed her head again. “Do you need to do the eye focus thing?”

“No, my love,” Arielle said weakly, “I’m all right…” But she did look up into his eyes, and just as it did for him when he was drowning, it steadied her, grounded her. He was breathing slowly, with intention, and she matched his breath and gained her footing again. It was the first time they’d ever used it on her.

Eliot squeezed her hand. “We don’t have to know, if you don’t want to relive it.”

“It’s-- all right.” Her breath hitched again but she held on to Eliot’s hand with a vice-like grip. “A rabbit came. It could have been from Tressa, we never knew, we never saw her again. The rabbit just said-- _Run._ And we did. And we never stopped.”

Eliot sat up quickly and threw a shield around the bed, and his taut hands holding it were shaking.

“El, El, it’s alright,” Arielle said, leaning forward to put a hand on his arm. “Nothing ever came. No one ever came. In nineteen years, no one _ever_ came after me. And I don’t think anyone ever will. You can take it down. Really. I swear, I’m fine.”

The magician hesitated and frowned, then with a wave collapsed the shield.

“Shenna thought, at the end, that maybe they’d just overreacted. I loved them, and the gods know they loved me, but you know, they were sort of… nutty, and… Bea and Tressa were very close, and Shenna thought maybe it was grief? Shock? That made her close the camp so fast and scatter us to the winds. That maybe we didn’t have to, after all. I don’t know.”

“And you moved from Sister to Sister…” Quentin said, putting it all together.

“Yes, and changed my name, made up backstories... I never lied to _you,_ though, I swear,” Arielle hastened to add. “I told you they were my aunts, yes, but everything else was true. I took a chance because… well, to be honest, because you’re both pretty powerful and it made me feel safe, and so I told you a little truth instead of a lot of lies. I’m sorry-- I’m sorry you didn’t know my name, though. That was shitty of me.”

“No, that was smart,” Eliot said, his mind visibly working. “I wonder if you should have kept it to yourself, actually.”

“We need wards around the yard, El,” Quentin said. “And the bakery. And the road between--”

“Wards that everyone can go through except the person or creature that we can’t identify? It’s not workable, Q,” Eliot said. “Maybe a personal shield.”

“I’m not wearing a shield, Ember’s balls, you two, there you go being the _menfolk_ again. I’ve taken care of myself all this time, I know what I’m doing. _No one knows I’m here._ And the girl who lives at the Mosaic is more famous in the rumor mill-- outside our Village friends, I mean-- for taking up with you two in some kind of weird sex magic cult. No one is wondering where I came from, just what we’re all doing in this house and whose baby this really is.” She decided now was not the time to bring up MJ’s questions, or she’d end up stuck in a glowing casket of spells. “I just wanted you to know. I couldn’t be a wife or a _ride or die_ one more minute without telling you.”

“El--” Quentin said, and that was all it took before both men had her wrapped up in a hug. 

“Okay, you’re not planning on shielding me forever with your bodies, are you?” she laughed. “Because eventually someone is going to need to pee, and we won’t all fit in the outhouse. Eliot--” she cut him off as he took a breath to speak, “--so help me do not make a joke about your dick reaching the window from here.”

The group collapsed in a heap of laughter, and the former Arisene, soon to be Arielle Coldwater-Waugh, never felt safer in her life.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late again, I'm in rehearsals and it's eating up all my writing time. It will be over all too soon (alas) and things won't be so chaotic. You can check my Twitter feed, @TrillianSwan, if I can't post on Monday morning I'll have status updates for you there.
> 
> I didn't think we'd get Ari's story so soon, but she was nagging at me that she'd never marry and create this family with these guys without telling them. So this was the time. The wedding is coming up soon!
> 
> Despite the name, the CODE PINK ladies are inspired by the novel _Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates_ by Tom Robbins. The main character is rescued in the Syrian desert by a very strange order of nuns led by Sister Domino Thiry. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fierce_Invalids_Home_from_Hot_Climates
> 
> No song this time, but Eliot wants you to know he had this stuck in his head all week, if it helps: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_6FBfAQ-NDE
> 
> Looking forward to your comments, as always! Have a great week!


	34. Rabbits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunk texting in Fillory.

**** The rabbits began to appear just after Eliot and Quentin had said goodbye to their friends who had shared in the bachelor party at the Mosaic long into the night. Barry and Marty swung off into the woods while most of the men, along with Mama, took the road to town. Wren walked home a swaggeringly drunk Hund in the other direction. Rand wouldn't arrive until the morning.

The groom and his best man had just reached the table to clear it when the rabbits came down onto it, one after the other, knocking over mugs and kicking cards off to the ground. Quentin lunged to rescue the cards on the table from the stream of beer but Eliot had already levitated them into a stack which he sent into Quentin’s hands.

 

_ I wish I was there _

_ No one to cuddle _

_ You two better cuddle _

_ Each other I mean _

_ Someone should be cuddling _

 

Eliot frowned at them, and then grinned slyly.  _ Ari,  _ he thought.  _ Ooh you little devil... _ “Shall we?” he said to Quentin, motioning to the outdoor bed. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

“El, she’s drunk,” Quentin said dismissively, though she wasn’t, really. 

In their years at the Mosaic, Quentin had developed his skill for meta-composition, mixing spells they remembered from school-- for they had no reference material but their memories-- and adapting them to create unique effects. The one he’d cast on Arielle was a twist on an illusion spell along with a healing spell and a protection enchantment, which meant that she could drink water and feel the effects as if it were liquor, but feel refreshed in the morning, all without hurting the baby. She was at the tavern with the ladies of the town, a bachelorette party Wren had helped her set up with advice he’d gotten from Eliot of the Earth tradition. 

If he hadn’t been Quentin’s best man, Eliot would be there as well. Arielle had whined that she wanted Eliot with her, and though he’d never tell the groom, he and the bride had a bit of a row over it, Eliot insisting he had to stay at the Mosaic. He supposed the rabbits were her paying him back for abandoning her by trying to make him squirm in front of Quentin.  _ But two can play at that game,  _ he thought, and he felt giddy and dangerous. He’d call her bluff, and gloat to her about it in the morning. 

He stretched out on the bed. “So she’s drunk. So am I. So are you. But she’s still right, as always. Why did we stop doing that?” He reached out for Quentin and wiggled his fingers. “Come to bed, baby…” he purred.

_ “That’s _ why.” Quentin grinned as he came closer to the bed and took one of Eliot’s grasping hands, lacing their fingers. 

“What?” Eliot blinked at him coyly.

“Because when you talk like  _ that...”  _

His blush fanned the flames of Eliot’s recklessness. “It makes your dick hard?” he hummed as he sat up and tugged on Quentin’s hand to yank him closer, his free hand taking a tight hold of the younger man’s hip. “I could take care of that, too. After all, it’s your last night as a single man,” he purred again.

“But I’m  _ not  _ a single man. I’m engaged to your ride or die,” Quentin pointed out, and kissed Eliot’s fingers, still wrapped in his own. 

“Just cuddle then,” Eliot said innocently, but his eyes were twinkling and he squeezed Quentin’s waist just above his hip which made him give a familiar squeak. “I won’t sweet talk you, scout’s honor.”

Quentin narrowed his eyes playfully and smirked as if to say  _ yeah right, _ but he let go of Eliot’s hand to climb into the bed and take his place as the little spoon.

As Eliot wrapped him into his arms, he purred once more, “Mmm, that’s it baby, just snuggle that cute little ass right in there where Daddy likes it.”

Quentin burst into giggles, which broke Eliot’s seductive facade, and they both collapsed in laughter. “You are ridiculous.”

“You make me ridiculous,” Eliot insisted, shifting them into spooning properly. 

“Oh, no, don’t blame that on me. You were like this before I found you.”

“But if I wasn’t, how would you know?”

Quentin didn’t get a chance to respond before more rabbits appeared by the bed.

 

_ Kisses are good too _

_ Just sayin’ Love Ari _

 

Eliot froze with his lips on Quentin’s wooden shoulder, where he knew he couldn’t feel it.

“She’s drunk,” Quentin said. “And you said just cuddling.”

“I did,” Eliot agreed, snuggling into him but also pulling them both back some, so Quentin was leaning back on his shoulder and could look at the stars. He laced the fingers of his left hand into Quentin’s again. “And that’s all you get, Baby Q. You’re engaged to my ride or die, after all.”

Quentin chuckled, and they fell into a comfortable silence.

“This is nice,” Quentin sighed. “The stars are so clear tonight.”

“I can’t see them,” Eliot said, his eyes closed, face turned to the side, breathing in the scent of Quentin’s hair. He clamped down on the heady feeling this gave him and turned and opened his eyes to the darkness above. “Without my glasses, I mean.”

“Do you want me to get them?”

“No, baby, they’re not good for close contact.” He openly nuzzled Quentin’s head at this, tilting his head down to run his closed eyes over his smooth hair, which of course he  _ had _ to do, to prove his point.

“Mmm… right. Okay. Wait, I need to--” Quentin sat up and undid his bun, and Eliot helped him straighten out his hair, both of their hands running through it. Quentin pulled it over his opposite shoulder-- for it was getting quite long, now-- and laid himself back down in Eliot’s arms, leaving his neck exposed.  _ Goddamn Ari,  _ he thought, because of course it was her fault that now he couldn’t stop thinking about kissing that neck, just under his ear, where it made him make  _ that _ noise.  _ Fucking minx. _

“Did you remember to burn the trash today?” Quentin said.

“I did,” Eliot replied, turning away to look at the blurry darkness again, grateful for the domestic distraction.

Quentin sighed. “We still have to clean up the mess from the party.”

“I’ll do it in the morning before we leave.” 

Arielle was staying at her bakery apartment after her party, and would dress there with her ladies for the ceremony. The twins had decorated it with what was an admittedly obscene amount of flowers and ribbons streaming everywhere, which may or may not have been at Eliot’s direction. The men were dressing in Mama’s apartment, the Wayward Room being off-limits for a surprise.

They were quiet again, but Quentin couldn’t lay quite still. “I’m getting married tomorrow.”

“Indeed you are,” Eliot said with a kiss to his temple.

“Do we-- know anyone? Back home, I mean? Who is still married? Besides you. And Alice’s parents, but that’s-- well. Not Fogg or our professors, not my parents, obviously-- and is your dad still married to--”

“Bitch Number Three?” Eliot rolled his eyes. “The last I heard, but who knows, by now. We did not have good role models.” He hooked his chin over Quentin’s shoulder. “But for what it’s worth, I think that you are going to be a  _ really _ good husband.” 

Quentin smiled and squeezed his hand. “So would you.”

“Nonsense. I’m a walking dumpster fire of a husband, as is evidenced by my illustrious marriage.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Tell that to my wife.”

“Do you-- still feel married to her?”

“No,” Eliot said, then sighed. “Sort of. I feel… responsible for her. Or when I go back, I will be, again. But not now, you know...”  _ The way we had to let them all go, be free, take care of themselves and each other without us because there isn’t anything we can do. _ None of which he had to say to the one person who understood it better than anyone.

“You stopped wearing your ring,” Quentin said as he squeezed his fingers.

“I did. And now you’re going to wear one.” Eliot held up Quentin’s left hand in his own and studied it. For a brief second he imagined rings on both their hands, but pushed it down.  _ Wedding fever. _

Which was apparently contagious, because Quentin said very quietly, “I’m sorry it can’t be us, too.”

Eliot felt very still. He couldn’t feel his heart beating. “Q, don’t.” He pulled their hands into Quentin’s chest and turned his body to the smaller man, moving them back into spoons so he wouldn’t have to look in his eyes. “Me too. Obviously. But I have to take back the key. And besides, you're a one-person-guy. All or nothin', as Mama would say.” This was true, and it was also easier than admitting he would want Quentin all to himself, if he had him again. “We’re fine as we are, and we get to be dads together.” He lifted his head to nuzzle his hair again and kiss his head. “I love you,” he whispered, “and Ari, and I love that you’re getting married. I’m not going anywhere. Yet, anyway. And when I do, I will know that you’re all tucked away safe in your storybook, with your princess, to live happily ever after.”

Quentin quickly flipped himself over, still in the circle of Eliot’s arms, apparently to hug him, but the angle was awkward and their mouths were only a half inch away. They both stilled. The space between them was close, and dark, and contained the universe, surely, because it was hard for Eliot to imagine anything else existing.

“We shouldn’t--” Quentin breathed. 

“No,” Eliot agreed, and swallowed. “But it’s not our fault--” He was going to explain about Arielle’s prank but Quentin seemed to take this half-sentence as a good enough excuse and kissed him, warm and sweet and deep.  _ Oh my Baby Q,  _ Eliot thought as he slid his hand into Quentin’s silky hair, _ how did I forget he loves kisses more than anything?  _ And then he didn’t think at all for several minutes, dissolving into the dream of lazy, teenage-makeout kisses under the stars.

Eliot’s teenage years had not been like this. Those experiences had been more of the get-what-you-can -before-he-bails or -we-get-caught variety. From what he understood, this stay-on-first, no-touching-below-the-shoulders, kissing-for-its-own-sake had been the sum total of Quentin’s teenage experiences, however, and he was a master at it. 

Quentin whined, apparently at himself, as he forced them apart. “Okay. We have to-- stop, because…”

“That’s how it started,” Eliot finished, letting go of Quentin’s hair and flopping his arm off the bed. He pulled the other from behind Quentin’s neck and ran his hand through his own hair, a poor and tangled substitute.

“Do you remember--”

_ “I remember everything,” _ Eliot chuckled darkly.

“Argh…” Quentin groaned, and fell beside him, face to the sky.

 

_ The first time they made out like teenagers was the night of the anniversary. Laying on the quilt under the stars, slowly and lazily kissing, like it could last forever. _

_ “Do you remember--” Quentin began, and Eliot knew he meant their last time together, with Margo. _

_ “I remember everything,” he growled softly. Which wasn’t strictly a lie, there were parts of that night that were hazy, but they tended to be parts in which Margo and Quentin were going at it and Eliot, neglected, began to pass out again. What happened between him and Quentin, however, had him at full attention. _

_ Quentin shivered all over in his arms, and Eliot felt his toes curl against his ankles where they were entwined. Quentin broke out of their kiss and lifted his head, an invitation to kiss his jaw and neck which Eliot happily accepted. _

_ “When I--” _

_ “Mm-hmm.” _

_ “And when you--” _

_ “Mm-hmm.” _

_ “Do you ever... think about it?” _

_ “Which one?” _

_ “Either... both.... us.” _

_ Eliot’s favorite thing, possibly in the entire world, the premier, #1-with-a-bullet, guaranteed closer was the feel of Quentin’s hair in his fingers while he sucked Eliot’s cock. It beat the feeling of his tongue, his hands, the heat and the suction, it beat everything, even everything that happened after. The silky soft hair that he could never quite settle his hands into because the head beneath was bobbing up and down, turning this way and that. The way his hair hung down like a curtain and then would suddenly lift as Quentin flipped it out of the way and looked up at him, doe eyes through lashes, mouth full, cheeks sunken, and that soft, soft hair falling gently to his jaw from the top of his head where he’d swept it. _

_ But Eliot felt possessive over that thought and didn’t want to share it, even with the man in question, and besides, he had just discovered what he would forever call his secret weapon, when he gently sucked at a spot just under Quentin’s ear that made him give the most delightfully impossible noise-- a shiver-squeal? a melty-squeak?-- so he said the truest thing he could think of before sucking at it again. “Only when I really need to come.” _

_ Quentin made the noise again, whatever it was, this time followed by another all-body shiver. “Me too,” he whispered. _

_ “Really?” _

_ “Mm-hmm.” _

_ “With... Alice?” _

_ “Please don’t bring her up right now.” _

_ “Sorry.” Eliot stopped his trail of kisses and bites and pulled up. “Wait. Are we each other’s  _ spank bank?”

_ “Oh my god, you are ridiculous,” Quentin laughed, and slapped at his shoulder. _

_ “But we  _ are, _ aren’t we?” Eliot demanded. “And we’ve been here a whole fucking  _ year? _ Secretly jacking off to thoughts of… _ each other?”

_ Quentin laughed harder, and Eliot joined in, collapsing down on top of him. The giddiness he felt at finally kissing Quentin as long as he wanted had exploded in bubbles all through his chest at the idea that he wasn’t alone, the relief that he wasn’t a creep for sneaking off to the woods to masturbate to thoughts of his roommate and friend, and the last man he had slept with in his own body.  _

_ “Oh thank god,” Eliot giggled into his hair. _

 

“Are you suggesting,” Eliot mused slyly, “that  _ this  _ night also end with my tongue in your ass?”

“Eliot,  _ god,” _ Quentin admonished, slapping at his stomach. “Anyway, that isn’t where it ended.”

“True.”

“I just don’t want it to be weird, tomorrow. At the ceremony, or after, with Ari.”

“Quite right, too,” Eliot said, taking his hand. “After all, it would just spark up your addiction to my huge magic dick. And then Ari would leave you, because you can’t get off my cock, it would be  _ tragic.” _ He laughed as he curled his body to dodge a harder smack from Quentin. “I  _ refuse  _ to be your homewrecker, it’s  _ so _ cliche.” 

“Again, you mean,” Quentin smirked.

“Again, I mean,” Eliot said with a grin.

Another slew of rabbits began to appear on the bed with them.

 

_ Or just fuck. Whatever. _

_ Gods you’re so hot _

_ I’m so drunk sorry _

_ Do what you want _

_ I miss you guys _

_ Love you so much _

_ Ride or die bitches _

 

Quentin lost it at this, curled over in giggles. Eliot got up out of the bed, stumbling a bit as he was still tipsy from the wine and high from the kisses, and grabbed one of the many rabbits before it hopped away. “To Mama. Find Ari. She’s drunk.” It vanished and he grabbed another. “To Mama. She’s outside sending rabbits.”

Quentin sat up and flailed after a rabbit on the bed, which allowed itself to be caught. “To Ari.  _ I _ would but Eliot--” he let it go in the air and it poofed away as he took another which had hopped over at the sound of an unfinished message. “To Ari. Is making me--” He grinned wickedly at his friend as he stood to take up another rabbit by the bed, “To Ari. Save myself for you.”

“Oh, no you don’t, Coldwater!” Eliot cried and grabbed one of the two remaining rabbits, who had stuck around to see how this played out. “To Ari. Lies, lies, all lies.” He took up the last. “To Ari. He’s besmirching my honor!” He dropped it into the air and rolled his shoulders, his hands on his hips. “We’re out of rabbits,” he smirked.

“The woods are full of rabbits, El.”

“Oh, yeah? Are you going to send her fanfic of this ‘ship?” Eliot said as he sauntered over to the table for more wine.

Quentin frowned as he climbed back onto the bed, one foot tucked underneath him. “I don’t think you can write fanfic about real people.”

“I’m pretty sure you can…”

“But not of your  _ friend!” _

“Are you saying I’m still your spank bank?” Eliot teased as he sank into a chair.

“I don’t need one,” Quentin huffed, rolling his shoulders and tossing his head in his Eliot impression, complete with a handwave. “Ari is-- very demanding of my attention.”

“Ooh, just how Baby likes it,” Eliot smirked.

“El, stop...” Quentin laughed and blushed, shoving his hair behind his ear.

“No, I’m glad. I’m glad she knows you like... guidance.”

Quentin’s eyes widened. “You mean you didn’t... tell her that?”

“No! The little minx worked it out for herself, apparently.” Eliot narrowed his eyes. “Why? Does she do other things I did?”

Quentin fell back on the bed and covered his eyes with his forearm.

_ “What?” _ Eliot squealed and leaned forward. Quentin curled away from him and groaned. 

“Oh. My.  _ God _ … Wait! Do you f--”

“Assholes are like opinions, Eliot, everybody’s got one,” Quentin snapped, and then sat up fast, his eyes wide. “El-- you  _ cannot _ have anything new in the bank. Those are the rules. Only what you already have. You can do whatever you want with those.”

“That’s what I love about bisexual boys,” Eliot mused, sitting back in his chair. “They get practice topping off the clock.”

“Rand giving it to you pretty good, then?” Quentin quipped, then grew serious. “You’re-- good? With... that? Now?”

Eliot nodded and looked down into his cup. “I’m good. I’m glad it was you, first, but Rand’s-- I feel safe. I’m safe.”

“Okay, good,” Quentin nodded.

“Is she loud? Is that why you needed the wards?” Eliot grinned at him.

“Eliot…”

“The ones you could cast weren’t strong enough, were they? For how loud she screams? I bet she cusses out a blue streak.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “I’m going to bed.”

_ “Quentin and Ari, sittin’ in a tree, f-u-c-k-i-n-g. First comes ass play, then comes Ari…” _

“NOTHING NEW IN THE BANK,” Quentin shouted over his shoulder as he swung the door shut behind him.

“Don’t need it, Baby Q,” Eliot chuckled to himself and drained his mug. For as long as he lived, he’d never need anything for that but the thought of Quentin’s hair. 

  
  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's a bit short, I am deep in rehearsals and writing is going to be very hard to make time or mental space for in the next few weeks. I can guarantee I will have to skip a week on Sept 30. And before then, short one-scene chapters like this one, I'm pretty sure. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed our boys' little tete-a-tete, see you in the comments and have a great week!
> 
> <3  
> Trillian


	35. Wonderland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning of the wedding.

“Thanks for coming with me,” Wren said to MJ as they skirted the edge of the Square. The center was filled with the wedding set-up, chairs in rows facing an arch covered with flowers that was centered under the large tree. “This wedding is my first job and Mr. Eliot put me in charge for the day and I _cannot_ screw it up.”

“It’s going to be great, Wren,” the girl said. “You’ve put so much work into this, I’m sure it will all pay off. And I kinda can’t wait to hear you bossing Eliot around,” she added with a chuckle. “Where are we off to first?”

“To see Arielle in her apartment. Mr. Eliot should be doing her hair right about now.”

“Oh, good,” MJ nodded, fidgeting with the bouquet of flowers in her hand. “I’ll be glad to drop this off. I’m afraid I’m going to crush it or something.” 

 

They made their way up the stairs that ran up the west side of the building. When MJ opened the door, they found Eliot adding tiny flowers into Arielle’s updo as she sat in her robe at the vanity table. Gee was laying out [ her dress ](https://www.allaboutweddingplanning.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/wedding-dresses-with-sleeves1.jpg) and [ trousseau ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/90/34/09/9034096630837e7128788385c8cda3d7.jpg)on the bed. Nalie had been Arielle’s maid of honor, until her baby had fallen ill. Arielle’s bridesmaids, the twins, had been filling in the best they could with everything. Gabby was downstairs in the bakery putting the finishing touches on the cake.

“Wait, _why_ don’t we have any food at home?” Arielle was asking.

“Because all your fucking rabbits ate our garden!” Eliot replied.

“All my--”

“Don’t play dumb with me, sister,” Eliot retorted to her reflection in the mirror. “I know _exactly_ what you were up to. You were mad because I wasn’t at your party and you were out for revenge. But I will have you know we followed your instructions to the _letter.”_

“Eliot, I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Arielle protested. “What instructions?”

“Do you really not remember sending rabbits? We got like _fifteen._ Though we did send half of them back.”

“Oh shit…” Arielle winced at him through the mirror. “What did I say?”

“Well, let’s see. You told us to cuddle, which we _did._ And then-- _mein Gott im Himmel_ what the hell is _that?”_ Eliot exclaimed with a hand on his heart as he looked up at the opening door through the mirror and saw the flowers in MJ’s hand.

The flowers were dead, drooping crispy petals as if they had sat out for months. MJ shrieked and dropped it. “It was-- it wasn’t--” she stammered. “They weren’t like this a second ago!”

Gee stepped forward to place a hand on MJ’s arm. Wren recalled they had been sort of friendly at school, though MJ had tended to shy away from people in general, and pretty girls in particular. She covered Gee’s hand with her own now, however, and seemed grateful for the reassuring touch.

Everyone stared at the flowers as if trying to process their existence. Wren took charge. “Mistress Giselle,” he said calmly, “we are going to need more flowers. MJ, would you escort the lady to pick some? _Now,_ please?”

But MJ didn’t move, and Gee took her hand. “We’re on it,” she said and smiled at MJ, who tried to smile back although she still looked shaken. Gee led her out of the door.

Arielle looked perplexed as she frowned at the flowers, hands on her hips, She didn’t smell frightened, though. Eliot’s eyes were narrowed, and he smelled wary, like this was just the first sign it was all going to go wrong.

Arielle must have sensed this in him too, because she caught his eye as she reached for his hand. “El, no one ever came. Whatever this is, there’s no _way_ it’s that. It’s just your run-of-the-mill chaos of the gods. That’s not just a saying, this is what they do to us on the reg. Weddings, especially. And we just have to deal with it.”

“Hmm,” was all Wren’s master said.

But Wren had an optimism Eliot lacked. “Mr. Eliot, everything is under control,” he assured him. “We have plenty of time still, and the woods are _full_ of flowers. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he added in a low voice with his head cocked, “But it’s about time MJ took a walk in the woods with a girl, if you know what I’m saying--”

Arielle laughed.

“--and if the gods accidentally made that happen, I’m putting it in the win column. What I need now, Mr. Eliot,” he said brusquely, “is the instructions for Mr. Quentin and for you to finish the bride’s hair and get over to the Wayward Room so Rand can get you into your vest. I will get Mama to come help Mistress Arielle to finish dressing. Oh, and Mistress Arielle,” he added with a bow to her, “Mistress Nalie sends her apologies, again, but the baby is still running a fever. She will try to make it to the ceremony.” 

“Well, hopefully he’s okay, that’s what’s important.” She rubbed at her own tummy, now beginning to swell a bit from her pregnancy. “I should send a rabbit…” 

“Don’t you move,” Eliot warned her. “Siri?”

“Ding-ding?” Wren barked in response. 

“Send a rabbit to Nalie with Arielle’s best wishes for baby Lin.”

“Will do. And Mistress Arielle, please don’t worry,” Wren said. “Everything is going to be perfect. We’ll have new flowers in a jiffy.”

“As long as I end today as Mrs. Coldwater-Waugh, everything else is just silliness,” Arielle shrugged, and then frowned at the window, which had darkened. “Although rain wouldn’t be great for everyone who turns out in the Square to witness.”

“Or for your hair, or mine,” Eliot pointed out as he fished a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and slid it into Wren’s saddlebag pouch. “Quentin, of course, looks even better in the rain,” he grumbled as he rolled his eyes. He pushed in one last tiny flower into Arielle’s hair. “There. I’m finished working my _regular people magic_ on our Princess so I can walk over with you, Wren.” He held out a hand to the bride, and when she rose and took it he kissed her knuckles. “Bitch, I will see _you_ when I come get you to walk you down the aisle. Better be ready.”

“Ride or die,” she acknowledged, as she turned to him and they bumped chests nonchalantly, Arielle putting a hand to her updo so it didn’t shake.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road, then, chop chop!” Wren said happily, and trotted out the door.

 

When the man and the dog reached the Square, Eliot gasped. The flowers on the aisle and on the arch were dead, as well. “What in the holy everloving fuck is _happening?”_ he exclaimed.  “Fucking Ember. Returned from vacay and having some fun?” he added to the sky. “Just fuck off and let us have one day, _please.”_

“Well,” Wren sighed. “It’s a good thing we have Thelma and Louise out there gathering flowers. Mr. Eliot, send a rabbit and tell them we need more. And do Ari’s rabbits while you’re about it. Mistress Gabriella!” he called out to the girl, who had emerged from the bakery. “Can you get rid of these flowers, please?”

Gabby looked around at the dead flowers in shock.

“I know, it’s a mess. We’ll figure something out. I need to get Mama and get this paper to Mr. Quentin,” Wren said. “T-minus one hour!” he added over his shoulder as he trotted off to the tavern and Eliot headed for the treeline and Gabby for the seats.

 

Mama and Rand were having tea in the main tavern room when Wren arrived.

“I just don’t get why Q and El won’t let me marry them too,” Rand was saying as the dog approached the open tavern door. “They love each other, they’re all a family, they’re raising this baby, it just makes sense.”

“Here’s the thing you’re not seeing, Father,” Mama said. “This balance they have with Arielle, it only works because they keep their shit _contained._ I’ve seen them together before, when they were _complicated,_ and even then they could hardly bring themselves to touch what was really between them, it was that big. Some loves are like that…” she trailed off and Rand patted her hand. “If those two _really_ got together, well, it wouldn’t just take out you and him, it’d eclipse Q and Ari’s relationship too. And ain’t nobody wantin’ that. They both love her, and their baby, and to keep the balance of this little family they have to keep their… _thing_ at a manageable level. I’m not sure if they’re doing it on purpose or by instinct, but this is how they’ve worked it out and if they don’t want to chance anything more I don’t think we should push at them.”

Wren had been waiting patiently for an opening, and seized it when it came. “Salutations, dear lady,” he said with a bow, “and to you, Father. Allow me to inform you that Mr. Eliot will be here any second, so you might want to can the balloon juice. Furthermore, Mama, you are requested at Arielle’s apartment to assist her in dressing. There has been a flower mishap and Gee went with MJ for more. Are Bonnie and Clyde--” by which he meant Jenna and Cleve-- “still working upstairs?”

“They took a break, went for a _walk,_ if you know what I mean,” Mama winked at him. “But they did finish the--” 

“Spoilers, Mama!” Wren chastised, which made Mama raise an eyebrow. “Sorry, madam, but loose lips spill tequila, as Mr. Eliot always says.”

“Does he, now?” she smirked over his head.

“Once. Siri Bean remembers everything I say,” Eliot said as he came into the tavern. “Father…” he continued as he sank into Rand’s arms, who had risen to greet him. “Thank [ Tara Simone Powell ](http://barbarasflowers.com/nycflowersbytara/home/) you’re here! Your stupid god got us on his radar and gave us a flower curse, all the arrangements are dead! Could you _please_ light a candle or something? Make him back off?”

“I can pray, I’ve got some for weddings I use fairly regularly, but to mixed success, I have to warn you,” Rand said. “It’s not always him. Sometimes it’s just coincidence.”

“Well _this_ coincidence took out the bouquet and all the flowers outside,” Eliot grumbled.  

“El, everything is going to be fine. Wren said MJ and Gee are on the case? And I have something for you,” Rand said with a grin. 

Eliot’s eyes lit up. “Vest time?”

Rand nodded. “Upstairs on the bed is [ the most beautiful vest I have ever seen ](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/2312/4057/products/FBA8A803-313F-4655-AF87-9DA5B7CC39B1_750x.jpeg.jpg?v=1568330928), Jenna dropped it off and I pre-laced it so we can just fasten the front and tighten it. C’mon, Best Man,” Rand said soothingly, taking his hand, “let’s go put it on and pretend it’s going to make you look prettier.”

“Oh, Rand,” Eliot gushed, taking his hand and leading him to the stairs, “you have no _idea_ what this vest will do.”

“Is it magic?”

“Vests are _always_ magic, silly. But a [ _corset vest...”_ ](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/2312/4057/products/25E710A8-E65D-4294-A2AD-FECBBE62394F_750x.jpeg.jpg?v=1568330928) his voice trailed off as they ascended.

“Mama, may I escort you?” Wren offered.

“I think I can find my way across the Square, hon,” Mama said. “You go on up and see to Q. He’s up there with your dad.” Wren nodded and made his way up the stairs.

 

At the top, he turned to check that the Wayward Room door was fully shut before he walked to Mama’s door. This one was cracked open for him to let himself in, as he was expected. He pushed it open to find his father, Wicklet, sitting in Mama’s front room across from Quentin, who sat remarkably normally in one of Eliot’s silk robes-- knees pressed together, hands in his lap, his gray socks peeking out underneath-- looking thoughtful and nervous. Wren pushed the door closed with his back leg.

“Well, see, they each need their own thing,” Wicklet was saying. “Every child is different. You have to meet them where they _are,_ just like anybody. So universal advice is hard-- well, hey there, son, did you bring the instructions?”

“Yeah, Dad, it’s in my bag. Mr. Coldwater, could you--” He turned to offer his side to the man.

[ Quentin’s Fillorian suit ](https://am21.akamaized.net/tms/cnt/uploads/2018/02/syfy-the-magicians-poached-eggs-1200x800.jpg) was laid out over the chairs of the little dining table. It looked just as the drawing had, though the jacket was now silver gray, as were the trousers, and a black shirt with silver trim around the collar accompanied it. Quentin fished the list out of Wren’s saddlebag that Eliot had prepared to explain how to put it on.

“You know, if you’re seeking fatherly advice, sir,” Wren continued, “you absolutely could not do better than my dad. I don’t know how he does it, but there’s twelve of us and every one would say the same.”

“Aw, it’s not magic,” Wicklet demurred. “You just gotta be there for ‘em, and help ‘em find their way, even if their way ain’t something you ever thought of, like this one here. I’m so proud of you, son, you’ve really whipped this wedding into shape.”

“Well, don’t be too proud yet,” Wren said. “We’ve got a long way to go still. And you’d better get dressed, Mr. Coldwater, sir.”

“Put that down over here, Q-ball,” Wicklet said, “and I’ll read it off.”

Quentin spread out the paper for him on the floor. 

“Let’s see here, it says to start with the underwear, undershirt, and socks,” Wicklet began.

“Check.”

“Alright, next is the shirt. It says here to put it on like a jacket, and then-- oh, well. Um.” 

“What?” Quentin asked.

“Well... it says to _wrap it around you like my arms…”_  

Quentin laughed, blushing, as he slipped it on. “You can skip the flowery stuff. Does it say which side wraps first?”

“Um, the... right. Should be a little tab there that goes on a button inside the left side, facing your sweet-- um, your waist, I guess.”

Wren pricked up his ears at some hushed arguing outside. “I’ll let you get to it, then,” he said. “Unless there is anything else I can assist you with, Mr. Coldwater, sir?” he added with a bow.

“I’m set, thank you, Wren,” the man said, as he came over to open the door for the dog, then stepped back so as not to be in view in his underwear and shirt. “I agree with Wick, you’ve done an amazing job. Thanks, really.”.

“All part of the service, my dear,” Wren said with another bow. “Dad, could you push the door shut behind me?” 

 

Wren came out onto the deck right into the middle of an argument. Eliot, now laced in his vest, with his hands on his hips, was facing off with Cleve, who had returned with Jenna from their walk. 

“Look, _Mr. Best Man,”_ Cleve hissed in hushed tones, “We _cain’t_ do the deck yet, because the groom is right in there!” He pointed to the door of Mama’s apartment. “He’s gonna come right through here to take the stairs down. And _you_ said ‘twere to be a _surprise!”_

Eliot tried to take a deep breath to retort but couldn’t, due to his corset vest. He placed a hand on his stomach. 

“Did you tie it too tight? I told you not to tie it too tight,” Jenna pointed out. “You’ll end up fainting.”

_“No,_ you said to tie it till it felt good, and it _does,”_ Eliot insisted harshly.

“It’s my fault, I laced him,” Rand said. “I tried to fight him on how tight he wanted it, but he wouldn’t listen, of course.” Rand took his other hand and caught his eye. “Are you okay?”

_“I’m_ fine, the _corset’s_ fine, unless I freak out, and I’m _not_ going to freak out,” Eliot reassured him, and himself. It didn’t work on either of them. He squeezed the priest’s hand. “You need to go do your prayers and whatever. I’m fine. Look, I’m breathing just like... a breathing person.”

“I’ll look after him, Father,” Wren piped up.

“If you’re sure,” Rand said, and Eliot nodded. The priest kissed his hand before he let go. “See you at the show.” 

Once he was down the stairs, Wren trotted up to the magician. He smelled wary again, like he was going to be scared, but wasn’t quite yet, or wasn’t letting himself. “Mr. Eliot--” he began, worried.

“Bean,” the magician said, putting out a hand. “I am in total control. I’ve been through worse battles… although I could use some _Les Mis...”_ he tried to chuckle. “Or some time... magic, like we used... to get at that... fucker Martin….” He leaned on the railing and smiled gamefully at Wren. “It’s just a... wedding, right? The... only wedding... they’re going to… have…” he panted, and his eyes closed. 

The clouds parted and a shaft of light flashed, making Eliot’s curls glow, and then there was a great tearing sound as he collapsed to his knees. 

“My vest!” Eliot gasped, and took gulps of air. He had fallen partly on Wren, who found himself looking down Eliot’s back over his shoulder. The vest was torn along the lacing, the lace itself still woven neatly but the corset split in two down to the middle of his back. 

“Get him some water,” Wren said, and Cleve took off down the stairs to the tavern. “Mr. Eliot, just breathe, okay?”

_“I’m fine,”_ Eliot snapped as he sat up and turned his back to his tailor. “Jenna…” he whined.

She knelt behind him and ran her fingers over the tear. “I’m sorry, Eliot,” she said softly. “I can’t fix this before the wedding.”

Eliot stood and ran for the Wayward Room to use its mirror to assess the damage. He was still laced tightly from the solar plexus down and the gasp he gave at his reflection put him off his breath again. He began clawing at the hooks in the front.

“I’m going to get Mr. Quentin,” Wren said. “Jenna, go intercept Cleve and the two of you go find MJ and Gee. They’re gathering replacement flowers somewhere, and they’ll need help getting them all and redecorating.” He waved a paw. “They will explain. You can finish all this later.” 

Jenna nodded and took off down the stairs.

Eliot was still trying to catch his breath and seemed unable to undo the hooks or tut them open with his shaking hands. He smelled scared, now. 

Wren needed to distract him. _“Mister. Eliot. Waugh,”_ the dog barked at the man, who obediently stilled and locked his eyes on his. “Forget about the corset. I need _you_ to take down these decorations and get them under the bed. They’ll have to put them up again, but that will keep Cleve out of the ceremony and that solves our Loud Crier problem so this is all a win. Now, _I’m_ going to get Mr. Coldwater, and _you’re_ going to take care of all of _this,_ okay?” he asked sternly.

Eliot, pale and struck, nodded at him and moved to obey but then stopped. “I can just go out onto the deck--” he began, but Wren held up a paw.

“Transformations are private, Mr. Eliot,” he said kindly. “You taught me that. Now get this stuff down or put a glamor on it or something, Magic Man, and I will be right back.”

Eliot nodded and began to tut. 

“Everything is peaches and plums, darling!” Wren called out grandly as he swept from the room. Nothing was really that far off track, this could all still be saved.  

 

He crossed to Mama’s apartment and scratched at the door. Quentin opened it, now in his suit. “Mr. Coldwater, sir,” he said with a quick bow, “Mr. Eliot is having a bit of a wardrobe malfunction. Your presence is required in the Wayward Room, if you will follow me, please.”

“Everything all right, son? Can I help?” Wicklet asked as he nosed around the door. 

“No, thanks, Dad, I’ve got this,” Wren said. “We just need Mr. Coldwater to work a little magic.”

Quentin frowned. “Eliot can’t make his own alterations? I didn’t learn any of his sewing spells. Where’s Jenna?”

“She’s off with Cleve,” Wren said with a dismissive wave of his paw, “You know those two, they’re Angelina and Billy Bob these days--”

Quentin laughed. “Um, no. You need to google that,” which was their shorthand for _ask Eliot._

Wren had been willing to banter a bit so Eliot could un-decorate the Wayward Room, but the time of the wedding was fast approaching and he needed to get this out of his bowl so he could go check on the flowers. And he wasn’t sure how long Eliot could hold it together alone. “Well, whatever, what we need is mending magic, so get in there, Glenda the Good Witch, and _mend.”_  

“I’m gonna go on down and find your mother,” Wicklet said. “She’s bringing the Second Litter.”

“Sure, Dad, I’ll see you down there,” Wren said a bit more exasperatedly than he meant to as he nosed at Quentin’s ankles to make him walk faster. 

 

When they reached the Wayward Room, it looked as it always did, to Wren’s relief. Eliot was sitting on the bed, his head in his hands, and his torn corset splayed open across his back.

“What did this?” Quentin marveled as he sat down on the bed next to him, one foot tucked under his thigh, and reached out to touch the frayed edges of the fabric. 

Eliot sat up and turned and threw his arms around the smaller man. “Oh, Q, I don’t _know!”_ he wailed.

“He fainted. From the corset,” Wren said.

_“No,_ I did _not,”_ Eliot insisted. “Not even a little bit!”

“Could it have been your mind? Unconscious telekinesis? Trying to get you out of it?” Quentin asked.

_“No!_ It wasn’t that tight!” Eliot huffed. “Why does everyone act like I’m Scarlett O’Hara? I know what a corset should feel like, and this was _fine._ Anyway, it doesn’t matter, I just want to know if you can _fix_ it!”

“I think so? But I need to get you out of it first and unlace it, or it will just tear again. Can you undo the front?” 

_“No!_ I’ve bent... the hooks or something... just hurry up and untie it,” Eliot whined as he turned his back to him.

Quentin set to work unlacing. “It’s going to be alright, El. Try to catch your breath.”

_“I can’t until you untie me!”_ Eliot snapped in a gasp.

“How off-brand for you,” Quentin mused, and Eliot broke into giggles, hampered as they were by the lacing.

“I’m sorry, Q, I’m sorry,” Eliot said ruefully. “This is _your_ day, and you're here having to-- ahh,” he sighed as the last of the lacing pulled away.

“It’s your day, too,” Quentin said as he helped Eliot out of the garment and laid it out flat on the bed next to them, smoothing out the fabric and lining it up. He moved his hands over the tear and it began to knit itself back together, strand by strand. 

“Just because I took it over,” Eliot pouted. He tutted the candle alight when the sunlight no longer broke through the window. “And now I’m making this about me, too, just being a big ol’ drama queen, like you always say...”

“Eliot, I’m _glad_ for your drama act today,” Quentin said. “I’m not trying to be a dick? But you freaking out is actually keeping me calm. I was getting a bit sick, earlier. Hanging out with Wick helped? But from the moment I walked in this room and saw you I felt better.”

“Oh, well, glad my tragedy can be of service, then,” Eliot huffed. “You look amazing, by the way, as I predicted.”

“Um, thanks. Still not sure about black for a wedding,” the groom said, as he turned the vest to work on the hooks.

“But you’re mostly silver, like a knight in shining armor,” Eliot said. “And you know black looks delicious on your skin. Isn’t that why you always wore it?”

“No, that was mostly to hide coffee stains. And… done.” He lifted the garment and tugged on it to test the mend. Satisfied, he held it up for Eliot to inspect.

“Q, you are a miracle worker!” Eliot marveled. “And on your wedding day...”

“Well, like I was saying? It’s _your_ wedding day too, because we do everything together. As a team. You, me, and Ari.” He lifted himself on his knee and held up the vest for Eliot to slip into, and once his best man had it hooked in the front, he began lacing. “And we’re doing this together, too. It may just be two of us actually getting married? But it’s _all_ of our wedding.” Eliot turned and gave him a look Wren couldn’t read and kissed Quentin on the forehead. Quentin pushed at him gently. “Turn around, or we’ll never get this done. And stop sucking in, dummy. That’s how you got into this mess in the first place. How did you think you were going to sing like this? Just-- think about you after cake? And hold it there.”

“Q, the whole fucking point of this is to _not_ look like me after cake!”

“Eliot, I swear to god, stop wiggling or you’re going in just your shirt.”

“Oh, _hell_ no, if it’s my wedding too then I’m _wearing my goddamn corset!”_

‘If you gentlemen will excuse me,” Wren said with a bow, “All this talk of cake has made me think I should go check on it. And I’ll make another pass by the bridal chamber.”

 

As he made his way into the Square, it was starting to fill up with guests. Everyone was invited, of course, which meant that Wren had missed out on a whole lesson on invitations and arressveepees. Eliot did his best to describe everything in detail, just so he’d know, but it wasn’t quite the same. He waved a paw at Gabby, who was helping everyone find seats. 

She had managed to strip away all the dead flowers from the aisle and arch. Wren was wondering if the new ones would arrive in time when he saw MJ and Gee, holding hands and running to him with a bouquet.

“Good job, ladies!” Wren exclaimed. Gee had tied her hair ribbon around quite a large bunch of daisies, and it looked lovely in that perfectly homemade way, which Wren had always thought would be a better style fit for Arielle despite Eliot trying to make everything fancy. “Why don’t you hang on to that, for now? My bags would crush it and we’re bringing her down any minute anyway. Did Jenna and Cleve find you?”

“We exchanged rabbits,” MJ said. “We were on the north side, they went to the south side by Cleve’s wagon, I guess he knew where to find some vines down there for the arch.”

“Well, it’s probably too late for that, now. We can get Eliot to do some of that firefly-flower magic he’s always pulling. If they show up soon, try to get the arch done, we can hold for a minute. But if they show up during the ceremony, tell them to go back upstairs and get to work.” The girls nodded in agreement and Wren set off for the bakery.

 

The smell of cake hit him well outside the door. His fur began to rise on his neck. It shouldn’t smell so strong. He pulled on the lever door handle and let himself in.

The cake was a mountain of white and red mess all over the floor, raspberry filling oozing out like blood. The wooden cake topper MJ had carved was all the way by the front door, on its side, still rolling slowly on its circular base.

Wren backed slowly out of the door, thinking fast. “Mistress Gabriella,” he called out. 

She strode over quickly. Apparently he hadn’t sounded as casual as he’d meant to. “Is everything okay, Wren?”

“The cake… is an ex-cake. It is no more, it has joined the choir invisible, it has ceased to be.” Wren hung his head and took a deep breath. 

“What?!”

“Go see for yourself,” Wren shrugged, and took another deep breath. He lifted his face up to hers again, with a look of renewed resolve. “I am going to inform the bride. I suppose there’s no time but we still need dessert for our guests, if you can think of anything. Otherwise, I’m just going to pray she meant what she said about everything else being silliness.”

“I will… see what I can come up with?” Gabby said hopefully, and went inside.

 

Wren marched up the stairs to the apartment, and nosed open the door. 

Mama was trying to get Arielle’s veil on. “D’ya think El can just like, levitate it over your head? Because it just won’t stay on,” she grimaced.

“Oh, forget it, Mama,” Arielle sighed. “It’s just one more thing and I’m tired of dealing with it. I’m heading down the aisle four months pregnant, it’s not like he hasn’t seen my face up close.”

“I suppose that depends on how you did it,” Mama smirked, and they both cracked up. “Oh, Wren, what’s shakin’, kid?”

“Mistress Arielle,” Wren said stoically, “I regret to inform you of the sudden and irretrievable demise of your wedding cake.”

Arielle’s eyes flew open wide and she ran for the door.

“Gabby’s--” he began, but she was already gone.

“Well, I just never in all my life,” Mama wondered. “I tell ya, it’s like someone has it out for these kids.” 

“Mr. Eliot says it’s Ember,” Wren said as they went down the stairs. “Father Rand is doing some extra prayers.”

“Well, he’d better hurry up before this whole place falls apart,” Mama grumbled.

 

As they turned the corner Wren just caught sight of the train of Arielle’s dress swinging behind her as she went in the door of the bakery. Quentin must have seen her running because he was running for the bakery as well, followed by Eliot, who was walking in great strides with a hand on his stomach.

They all reached the door at roughly the same time, only to find Arielle standing in the middle of the shop floor, dress bunched up in her hands to keep it out of the cake that seemed to have splattered everywhere, a look of utter shock on her face.

No one moved or spoke for what seemed to Wren like an eternity. 

Quentin broke the silence. “Ari, sweetheart?” he began.

At this something changed completely in her and she began to guffaw with laughter, throwing her head back and dancing, barefoot, in the cake. “Hours! And hours! Of Work!” she cackled as she kicked chunks of cake up into the air.

Eliot began to laugh as well, as did Mama. Quentin, however, looked very worried and stepped forward to try to stop her with his arm out. She shook him off, letting go of one side of her skirt.

“Ari, your dress!” Eliot cried out.

“We made out last night!” Quentin blurted out at the same time. Everyone stopped again. “Well, I just-- thought it would get her attention,” he muttered.

She looked at him open-mouthed, and then narrowed her eyes at Eliot. “To the letter?”

“To the _letter,”_ Eliot smirked. “Except for the--” he gave a whistle, and winked. “He had to save his strength for _you,_ Princess Bride. Though this time it was _not_ as you wished, I suppose.” 

Arielle looked over at Quentin, who was blushing a fiery red, and broke up laughing, harder than ever, which made her groom chuckle, too.

Eliot waved a hand over the mess and moved it mostly away from the bride and groom. “Your hem near that cake was going to give me a heart attack. Q, baby, how are your shoes? Nevermind, the answer is Fillorian.” He held out a hand to Arielle, who took it. “Just wipe them on the mat _after_ we get through the door so she doesn’t drag through it.”

Arielle moved her hand up to the crook of Eliot’s elbow as they cleared the door. “You just didn’t want to have to share him with me, you greedy bitch,” she teased in a whisper.

“You know me so well.” He patted her hand.

“Ride or die,” she hummed in agreement.

Once everyone was outside but Quentin-- who was leaning in the doorway over the mat, still struggling to get the cake off his shoes-- Eliot turned to Wren.  “Hey Siri?”

“Ding-ding?” Wren barked back.

“Are we working on a solution for this?”

“Gabby is in the kitchen as we speak, sir. I believe she will have one shortly.”

“Good, Q, baby, how’re we doing with the shoes?”

“Um-- almost-- there, yeah, I think that’s it,” he said, looking them over.

“Then may I please have your arm, so we may proceed to the Square so I may have the honor of  giving you both away to each other, finally?” Eliot said grandly.

“Oh. Wow.” Quentin said, looking up at them in shock. “It’s like-- now.”

“It’s like now, Baby Q,” Eliot said fondly. “Unless you want to call it off, either of you. It won’t hurt my feelings, or Wren’s, which as it turns out is the main benefit of having all your plans go to shit.”

“Oh, I want to marry you more than ever, Quentin Makepeace Coldwater,” she said, letting go of Eliot’s arm to step to her groom and lace her fingers behind his neck. “In the face of the chaos of the gods.”

“We make our own rules--” he said and cut himself off to kiss her, another one of their forever kisses, and the last they’d ever have as an unmarried couple.

“Somehow, I think you’ve already done it,” Mama mused. Eliot slipped his hand into hers and squeezed.

“Well, come on, chickens, we’ve got a priest with a cord waiting, so let’s do it again, legit,” Eliot declared, and held out an elbow to each of them, which they took. The Coldwater-Waughs, grinning like fools, made their way to the far end of the Square with Mama and Wren following behind them.

 

None of them noticed the man who slipped back into the trees.

  


tbc

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a day late! I’m just crazy as the show opening nears. I am really looking forward to your reaction to all this, though, so be sure and comment! Hearing from you will be a great boost to my energy as I slog through the end of rehearsals. 
> 
> Next week: Through the Looking Glass, then a one-week hiatus, unless somehow that chapter comes to me fully formed during tech week. *snort* 
> 
> Have a great week!  
> <3  
> Trillian


	36. Through The Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a nice day for a white wedding.

“Thanks for coming with me,” the dog said to the girl as they skirted the edge of the Square. The girl was tall, and wore a dress and boots and looked rather butch. But the dog was the true mystery, as he wore a brocaded vest, with buttons on the back, and a dark green collar with a silver bow tie at the neck. His haunches were covered in saddlebags made from a complementary material to the vest. His red nails clicked on the stones. “This wedding is my first job and Mr. Eliot put me in charge for the day and I _cannot_ screw it up.”

“It’s going to be great, Wren,” the girl said. “You’ve put so much work into this, I’m sure it will all pay off. And I kinda can’t wait to hear you bossing Eliot around,” she added with a chuckle. “Where are we off to first?”

“To see Arielle in her apartment. Mr. Eliot should be doing her hair right about now.”

“Oh, good,” the girl nodded, fidgeting with the bouquet of flowers in her hand. “I’ll be glad to drop this off. I’m afraid I’m going to crush it or something.” 

 

Neither of them noticed the man in the woods. _Good,_ he thought. _I’ve landed on the right day, at least._ Time travel wasn’t as easy for him as dimension travel, yet. _And if they’ve warded the place, well, it didn’t keep me out. Just like the puzzle didn’t._ He had gotten too close that day. 

All he had wanted to do was inspect the puzzle, to try to work out why it defended itself when he had tried to blast it off the map, deflecting his spell so it took out another village instead. It was a very old map, to be certain. The puzzle and its village didn’t seem to exist at all in modern Fillory, or at least the quivering fools who served as Mapmakers at Whitespire hadn’t been able to find it, so he embarked on a search of older records. 

He had found this crackling parchment in the Armory, undated. It was a map of somewhere in Fillory, surely, as the Mapmakers had a style system and this one was drawn in the colors and figures of a Fillorian map. It had a river, but it wound in directions he didn’t recognize, and the map itself was in a scale that made it difficult to match to the current maps. The names were all generic as well, Town and Bigger Town and so forth, and all the villages were simply marked as “Village.” The Mapmakers of yesteryear were clearly as useless as the modern ones. But it did have the Mosaic puzzle, clearly marked. The puzzle that gave out weapons.

He placed his finger over the Mosaic symbol on the map, and traced a circle with his fingertip in a circumference he hoped of a couple of miles. With some rather elegantly complex magic he’d been tinkering with, he “wished it into the cornfield”, as the kids say today. Not unapt, as the pocket dimension he created for it was indeed full of cornfields and other resources. After all, the unsolved Mosaic might not only solve his current problem, but it could also prove a useful weapon in future skirmishes. Best to keep his pets fed and watered until then.

But the puzzle remained on the map-- nestled next to, unsurprisingly, “The Village”-- and another village to the northwest disappeared instead. _Well, now things are getting interesting,_ he thought. _How did it manage to protect itself like that?_

So he’d sent his consciousness into a Fillorian man, well over a hundred years in the past-- a guess, to be sure, but he wasn’t going bodily so it wasn’t much of a risk-- into the map, using it as a sort of beacon to the puzzle, see what he could learn.

Once he had the grizzled, middle-aged drunk moving, he had found the puzzle with little trouble-- the map was detailed and accurate, at least-- and waved away the wards with irritation. He squatted down by the puzzle and tried to take it in. There were tiles scattered everywhere, some of them tucked into the puzzle floor in rows, so that was apparently how one was to use it. To do what, though?  

And then he heard a cheery “you-hoo” and looked up to find two men approaching the puzzle. They were young, and in twenty-first century Earth clothes. The short one, who leaned on a stick for support, seemed mousy and inconsequential. But the tall one sort of-- _pulsated_ with magic. He could almost hear a rhythmic thump as waves of it hit the air around the boy, like a drum inside a dream someone was having in another room. 

She had recruited student Magicians. Maybe from Brakebills, as they sounded American from what little they spoke. His instinctual fear turned to rage, but he used it for his “character”. He cursed and played it off like he’d been trying to solve it himself and high-tailed it out of there. 

Now he wished he’d just ended them right then and there. His fingers itched. But to fight them, he would need to know much more about them, how strong they were and what they might be planning. So now, another recon mission into the past, on a date found in old church records, the only mention of the Mosaic in all of Fillory, as far as he knew. _Arielle Coldwater-Waugh of the Mosaic, handfasted to her beloved, witnessed by their loving friend and all the folk of the Village in the Square._ The Magicians, no doubt. 

It was not only the one precise date he had-- not having bothered to check when exactly he landed on his last visit-- but it was quite fortunately a date on which he knew what they would be doing, and to find them away from the puzzle, which might be protected still. What were two Magicians from Earth doing playing with a puzzle, well over a hundred years in the past, and what did it have to do with him? 

 _Because they must be after me, what else is there?_ the Beast mused. _It’s some kind of trick of Jane’s to get me out of Fillory, but it isn’t going to work. Whatever the puzzle gave her, I’ll take it instead._

Martin slipped back into the trees, and headed for the area behind the bakery. When he saw the dog and the girl on the stairs, a bouquet of red roses bouncing in the girl’s hand, he waved a hand and the flowers drooped, instantly dead and dried. It was a small gesture but it should illicit some reaction, and he had all day to play with them. He grinned. _After all, I may as well have a little fun._

He moved around to the back of the building and waited for a scream, a bride running out in tears, flash of magic light, but there was nothing. After a moment, two girls-- the tall butch one from the Square and a new one, shorter, her brown hair tied back in a ribbon-- came down the stairs.

“So… know any good flower spots?” the tall girl shrugged.

“There’s a clearing, if we head up the North Road. It’s got a lot of daisies,” Ribbon Girl said, and they turned the corner.

So. No magic, then. Solving it all like monkeys, not Magicians. But that didn’t tell him anything, really. They could be utterly weak, or so powerful they hide it from the locals, or not even Magicians at all. Perhaps he’d imagined the pulsating magic beat. After all, the tall man was also devastatingly handsome, and there was just enough man left in Martin to want to pin the man down and fuck him until he cried. His cock twitched at this, but he shoved the thought away. Something bigger, then, to _make_ them resort to magic. He gave a tut that was hardly more than a flick, and all the wedding flower arrangements in the Square fell dead, as well.  

Martin slipped through the trees until he was behind the bakery, and slid his shadow up the wall to peek in. 

“As long as I end today as Mrs. Coldwater-Waugh, everything else is just silliness,” the bride shrugged, and then frowned at the window, which had darkened from Martin’s shadow. “Although rain wouldn’t be great for everyone who turns out in the Square to witness.”

 _Arielle._ And the one doing her hair was his tall Magician, who must be “Mr. Eliot,” as the dog had called him.

“Or for your hair, or mine,” the Magician pointed out, as he fished a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and slid it into the dog’s saddlebag pouch. “Quentin, of course, looks even better in the rain,” he grumbled and he rolled his eyes. 

The Magician pushed in one last tiny flower into the bride’s hair. “There. I’m finished working my _regular people magic_ on our Princess so I can walk over with you, Wren.” He held out a hand to the bride, and when she rose and took it he kissed her knuckles. “Bitch, I will see _you_ when I come get you to walk you down the aisle. Better be ready.”

“Ride or die,” the bride replied, as she turned to him and they bumped chests nonchalantly.

 _If this is the loving friend Eliot, then Quentin must be the groom._ Martin slid his shadow back down the wall. Pretty Boy would be walking with the dog somewhere, maybe to Mouse. He hoped they crossed the Square. It would make it harder to follow them but he longed to see Pretty Boy’s reaction. _Perhaps this is a holiday for me too,_ he thought giddily.

Pretty Boy did not disappoint. When he and the dog reached the Square, he gasped. “What in the holy everloving fuck is _happening?”_ he exclaimed.  “Fucking Ember. Returned from vacay and having some fun?” he added to the sky. “Just fuck off and let us have one day, _please.”_

 _Idiot. You’re hunting the most powerful Magician ever to step foot in Fillory and you don’t think I will fight back?_ Martin mused. _And instead you’re giving all the credit to the stinking goat-god?_  

“Well,” the dog sighed. “It’s a good thing we have Thelma and Louise out there gathering flowers. Mr. Eliot, send a rabbit and tell them we need more. And do Ari’s rabbits while you’re about it. Mistress Gabriella!” he called out to Ribbon Girl, who had somehow emerged from the bakery, now without her ribbon. “Can you get rid of these flowers, please?”

 _I need to keep better track of where everyone is,_ Martin thought, _or I’ll get snuck up on again._

The Ribbonless Girl looked around at the dead flowers in shock.

“I know, it’s a mess. We’ll figure something out. I need to get Mama and get this paper to Mr. Quentin,” the dog said. “T-minus one hour!” he added over his shoulder as he trotted off to the tavern and Pretty Boy headed for the treeline directly at Martin.

Almost without thinking, Martin teleported to the other side of town, out of range of most quick locator spells if he’d been spotted. He arrived in the trees across the road from a covered wagon, stuck in the mud by the river. 

A man emerged, wearing only underpants and a giant grin. “Naw, you stay there, baby girl,” he said over his shoulder to the open door of the wagon. He began scooping up discarded clothes from the yard. “There’s bears out here, you know, and you’ve given ‘em a hell of a show already!”  

A giggle came from inside the wagon. The man went back inside with the clothes, slamming the door shut behind him, and Martin made his way across the road to the trees on that side. Soon the man and a small, curly-headed woman emerged, flushed and disgustingly happy. The man caught her around the waist from behind and kissed her neck.

“Now, Cleve, stop!” the woman laughed. “We have to get back to see the groom, and if he’s out of the way so we can finish.”

“I bet he’s not,” the man said, “because we hadn’t even seen Wren go up to Mama’s apartment yet when we left. I bet he’s still getting dressed.”

Martin had planned to follow Pretty Boy to Mouse, but it seemed that these two were headed to him as well. Martin waited until they passed, slipped on an invisibility shield that he really should have thought of before, and followed them up the road.

“Tell me a _True Story of Fillory,”_ the woman purred as the two Fillorians walked hand-in-hand.

“It’s a pretty short walk,” the man pointed out.

“Tell me a pretty short story, then.”

“Well, let’s see. Okay, here’s the shortest one I know in the shortest way I can tell it. There once was a village, and then there wasn’t.”

Martin stopped short, but then trotted to catch up.

The woman laughed. “Okay, you got me. What happened to it, though?”

“No one knows,” the man shrugged. “It was just there one day and gone the next. Some said it was a witch. And some say…” he added, leaning into her, “that one little girl escaped but she was never heard from again.”

This piqued Martin’s curiosity. He had generally assumed that not everyone was in town when he cast the village into the other dimension, he didn’t really care, as long as the puzzle went. But this sounded more like he had actually removed everyone that belonged to the town but one little girl. _Interesting._

“Then how did they know she escaped?” the woman asked.

The man laughed. “Now, see, I think that’s a whole second story, and we’re here already.”

The enamored Fillorians headed into the tavern, and Martin made his way to the trees behind it. The man had said something about an upstairs apartment, and he hoped to find a window in the back.

 

What he found was a deck with a door on either side of it, and one open doorway in the center. Out of the left door came Pretty Boy, now in a form-fitting vest, and a priest. They kissed briefly, interrupted by the arrival of the two fuckbunnies from the wagon.

Martin’s heart raged at this handsome priest, who seemed to be his Magician’s lover. Martin may never get the chance to bed Pretty Boy, depending on how all this went, but he didn’t want anyone else to touch him either. He was _claimed._

And he was now facing off against Mr. Fuckbunny, something about decorating the deck. The vested dog was emerging from the other door.

“Look, _Mr. Best Man,”_ the little man hissed in hushed tones, “We _cain’t_ do the deck yet, because the groom is right in there!” He pointed to the door, giving Martin final confirmation. “He’s gonna come right through here to take the stairs down. And _you_ said ‘twere to be a _surprise!”_

Pretty Boy tried to take a deep breath to retort but couldn’t. He placed a hand on his stomach. 

“Did you tie it too tight? I told you not to tie it too tight,” Miss Fuckbunny pointed out. “You’ll end up fainting.”

 _“No,_ you said to tie it till it felt good, and it _does,”_ Pretty Boy insisted harshly.

“It’s my fault, I laced him,” the priest said. “I tried to fight him on how tight he wanted it, but he wouldn’t listen, of course.” He took Pretty Boy’s other hand and caught his eye. “Are you okay?”

 _“I’m_ fine, the _corset’s_ fine, unless I freak out, and I’m _not_ going to freak out,” Pretty Boy reassured him.

 _A_ corset? _Oh, for the love of god, please turn around and let me see,_ Martin begged in his head.

Pretty Boy squeezed the priest’s hand. “You need to go do your prayers and whatever. I’m fine. Look, I’m breathing just like... a breathing person.”

“I’ll look after him, Father,” the dog piped up.

“If you’re sure,” the priest said, and Pretty Boy nodded. The priest kissed his hand before he let go, making Martin growl softly to himself. “See you at the show.” He descended through the open doorway in the center of the deck, which seemed to be stairs to the tavern below.

The dog trotted up to the Magician. “Mr. Eliot--” he began in a worried tone.

“Bean,” the magician said, putting out a hand. The other found the railing and he _finally_ turned his back so Martin could see the lacing. His heart raced at the sight. 

“I am in total control,” Pretty Boy was saying. I’ve been through worse battles… although I could use some _Les Mis...”_ he tried to chuckle. “Or some time... magic, like we used... to get at that... fucker Martin….” 

 _Martin._ _To get at that fucker Martin._ The Beast seethed with rage. He was right, these were Jane’s minions, and they were somehow here for him. _Oh, you pretty little cocksleeve,_ he thought, _you’ll never get me, because you won’t live to try._ He began to tut.

The Magician leaned on the railing. “It’s just a... wedding, right? The... only wedding... they’re going to… have…” he was panting.

Martin sent a blast of battle magic at the middle of his back, aiming for his heart, not caring who saw the flash of magic light. 

The Magician collapsed, but then cried out. “My vest!” he gasped, and took gulps of air. The vest was torn along the lacing, the lace itself still woven neatly but the corset split in two down to the middle of his back. 

 _Not dead! It didn’t even touch him!_ Martin screamed in his head, dropping his invisibility shield as he lost control _._ So it wasn’t just the puzzle that was protected. The Magician himself had deflected the spell, just like the whole village had. There were no obvious signs of shields or wards. _How are they doing this?_ he fumed. He twisted his fingers in a fit of pique and bent all the hooks on the corset. His Magician was struggling to catch his breath, at least.

Miss Fuckbunny was kneeling behind him, running her fingers over the tear. “I’m sorry, Eliot,” she said softly. “I can’t fix this before the wedding.”

Pretty Boy stood and ran for the door he and the priest had come out of earlier, followed by the dog and the woman. Soon Miss Fuckbunny emerged and disappeared down the stairs, probably chasing Mr. Fuckbunny who had done the same a minute earlier.

 _“Mister. Eliot. Waugh,”_ he could hear the dog bark at the man through the open door.

 _There it is,_ the Beast mused. _The dead man walking is Eliot Waugh._ Why the bride was taking his name remained a mystery, as was the use of the hyphenate at all, which was not a Fillorian custom. _They don’t seem concerned with altering the course of Fillorian history,_ he thought. _Unless their plan is to infect everyone with Future Earth nonsense, like the dog and his clothes and strange patter._ He couldn’t quite figure out what that would accomplish, however.

“Everything is peaches and plums, darling!” the dog called out grandly as he swept from the room. 

He crossed to the opposite door and scratched at it. Mouse opened it, wearing a silver suit. The groom, clearly, which would be Quentin. “Mr. Coldwater, sir,” he said with a quick bow, “Mr. Eliot is having a bit of a wardrobe malfunction. Your presence is required in the Wayward Room, if you will follow me, please.”

 _Mouse is Quentin Coldwater._ Martin was breathing hard but gaining back control of his senses. _Reconnaissance,_ he scolded himself. For now, he was here to _learn,_ not kill. And perhaps he wouldn't even kill them now, after they've started the puzzle quest. He could find them in their present,  _Eliot Waugh and Quentin Coldwater, most likely from Brakebills._ And something Pretty Boy had said, that they had used time magic to _get at that fucker Martin,_ but they hadn’t, yet, in the time he was from, which on Earth he supposed was somewhere in 2016. So he could get to them at Brakebills, if he could find a way in, and stop them before they even came to the Mosaic. Besides keeping Jane from getting her weapon or whatever it was from the puzzle, it would free the thing from their protection spells and allow him to steal it after all.  

And now that he had their names, they should be easy enough to track down in their own time. Of course, then they will have Jane, and the faculty, and whomever else she has recruited to her side of their family squabble. 

“Well, whatever, what we need is mending magic,” the dog was saying, “so get in there, Glenda the Good Witch, and _mend.”_  

 _A mender. Holy Christ, Jane, you certainly assembled a crackerjack team,_ Martin chuckled to himself. _I’m trembling at the thought of home repairs and magically darned socks. I mean, really. Show some respect._ If that was all she had to proffer, then perhaps 2016 wasn’t so dangerous a time to attack after all. 

On the other hand, perhaps it _was_ better to take them here, as he burned to do, where they were alone and relatively defenseless, their recent imperviousness to his spells notwithstanding. He knew more powerful magic. And they were children who had stumbled across some kind of protection spell. It could only work for so long, and was unlikely to withstand his powers. But he still didn’t know what they could fight him back with. He could almost see Jane’s logic in sending a mender to work on the puzzle, perhaps the pulsating Pretty Boy was the muscle? 

Martin slid his shadow up the wall of the tavern to the window of the room the Magicians had retreated to.

“I’m sorry, Q, I’m sorry,” Pretty Boy was saying. “This is _your_ day, and you're here having to-- ahh,” he sighed as the last of the lacing pulled away.

“It’s your day, too,” Mouse said as he helped the Magician out of the garment and laid it out flat on the bed next to them, smoothing out the fabric and lining it up. He moved his hands over the tear and it began to knit itself back together, strand by strand. 

“Just because I took it over,” Pretty Boy pouted. He tutted the candle alight when Martin’s shadow blocked the sunlight that had been streaming in the window, magic any Magician could do. “And now I’m making this about me, too, just being a big ol’ drama queen, like you always say...”

“Eliot, I’m _glad_ for your drama act today,” Mouse said. “I’m not trying to be a dick? But you freaking out is actually keeping me calm. I was getting a bit sick, earlier. Hanging out with Wick helped? But from the moment I walked in this room and saw you I felt better.”

“Oh, well, glad my tragedy can be of service, then,” Pretty Boy huffed. “You look amazing, by the way, as I predicted.”

“Um, thanks. Still not sure about black for a wedding,” the groom said, as he turned the vest to work on the hooks.

“But you’re mostly silver, like a knight in shining armor. And you know black looks delicious on your skin. Isn’t that why you always wore it?”

“No, that was mostly to hide coffee stains. And… done.” Mouse lifted the garment and tugged on it to test the mend. Satisfied, he held it up for Pretty Boy to inspect.

“Q, you are a miracle worker!” the Magician marveled. “And on your wedding day...”

“Well, like I was saying? It’s _your_ wedding day too, because we do everything together. As a team. You, me, and Ari.” Mouse lifted himself on his knee and held up the vest for Pretty Boy to slip into, and once his best man had it hooked in the front, he began lacing. “And we’re doing this together, too. It may just be two of us actually getting married? But it’s _all_ of our wedding.” 

 _So despite the strange naming convention, the Bride is only marrying Mouse after all,_ Martin thought. _I would have thought millennials would love Polyamory Land._

The taller Magician turned and gave the shorter one a loving look, and kissed him on the forehead.

 _Maybe they do,_ Martin thought, disgusted. _Are you fucking everyone in this town, you dirty whore?_

Mouse pushed at him gently. “Turn around, or we’ll never get this done. And stop sucking in, dummy. That’s how you got into this mess in the first place. How did you think you were going to sing like this? Just-- think about you after cake? And hold it there.”

“Q, the whole fucking point of this is to _not_ look like me after cake!”

“Eliot, I swear to god, stop wiggling or you’re going in just your shirt.”

“Oh, _hell_ no, if it’s my wedding too then I’m _wearing my goddamn corset!”_

 _The cake,_ Martin thought, and grinned. _A classic wedding disaster waiting to happen._ He wasn’t sure what he would learn from this, but it ought to be generally upsetting to everyone involved, which would calm his nerves, and perhaps he would discover that the mender had merely brought a chef along on his quest. 

 

He teleported himself behind the bakery again, and followed the side without the stairs until he could see the huge four-tiered white cake through the window, sitting on the counter. It was decorated Earth-style, complete with a wedding topper of a happy bride and groom, with a third, taller figure behind them, hands on both their shoulders. With a wave, he sent it crashing to the floor. He blipped back over to the other side of the building where he knew, from his previous reconnaissance, he would have a better view of both the side and front of the little bakery.

The dog was finishing talking to Ribbon Girl-- _ah, twins,_ it finally clicked in Martin’s mind-- and was heading for the door when he paused and began to move forward slowly, tail low, hackles raised. He pulled on the lever door handle and let himself in. 

He backed out again almost immediately, eyes wide with shock. “Mistress Gabriella,” he called out. 

Ribbonless Twin strode over quickly. “Is everything okay, Wren?”

“The cake… is an ex-cake. It is no more, it has joined the choir invisible, it has ceased to be.” Wren hung his head and took a deep breath. 

“What?!”

“Go see for yourself,” the dog shrugged, and took another deep breath. He lifted his face up to hers again, with a look of renewed resolve. “I am going to inform the bride. I suppose there’s no time but we still need dessert for our guests, if you can think of anything. Otherwise, I’m just going to pray she meant what she said about everything else being silliness.”

“I will… see what I can come up with?” Ribbonless Twin said hopefully, and went inside.

The dog marched up the stairs to the apartment, and nosed open the door. 

Within seconds, the bride, now dressed in a flowing white gown, ran down the stairs. 

 _That’s more like it, darling,_ Martin thought happily. 

The dog and an older woman followed behind her. Mouse must have seen her running because he was running for the bakery as well, followed by Pretty Boy, who was walking in great strides with a hand on his stomach.

They all reached the door at roughly the same time that Martin’s shadow loomed at the window, only to find the bride standing in the middle of the shop floor, dress bunched up in her hands to keep it out of the cake that seemed to have splattered everywhere, a look of utter shock on her face.

Mouse broke the silence. “Ari, sweetheart?” he began.

At this something changed completely in her and she began to guffaw with laughter, throwing her head back and dancing, barefoot, in the cake. “Hours! And hours! Of Work!” she cackled as she kicked chunks of cake up into the air.

The bride was clearly no Magician, but she had her own _regular people magic_ as Pretty Boy had called it, that many Magicians lacked. _Resilience._ Martin couldn’t help but bear a grudging respect for her. He brought his shadow back to himself and adjusted his position so he had a better view of the front of the shop and the growing crowd in the Square. _Oh, now, see this could be oodles of fun,_ _all these people…_ His mind began to race.

The bride and the tall Magician were coming out of the shop, her hand moving up to the crook of his elbow as they cleared the door. “You just didn’t want to have to share him with me, you greedy bitch,” she teased in a whisper.

“You know me so well.” He patted her hand.

“Ride or die,” she hummed in agreement.

 _So Pretty Boy has his limits._ Martin so wished there was time to test them.

Once everyone was outside but Mouse-- who was leaning in the doorway over the mat, still struggling to get the cake off his shoes-- Pretty Boy turned to the dog.  “Hey Siri?”

“Ding-ding?” the dog barked back. Martin didn’t get this reference, perhaps it was new. It had been quite a while since he’d last roamed the Earth.

“Are we working on a solution for this?”

“Gabby is in the kitchen as we speak, sir. I believe she will have one shortly.”

“Good, Q, baby, how’re we doing with the shoes?”

“Um-- almost-- there, yeah, I think that’s it,” Mouse said, looking them over.

“Then may I please have your arm, so we may proceed to the Square so I may have the honor of  giving you both away to each other, finally?” Pretty Boy said grandly.

“Oh. Wow.” Mouse said, looking up at them in shock. “It’s like-- now.”

“It’s like now, Baby Q,” Pretty Boy said fondly, and Martin grimaced at the pet name. “Unless you want to call it off, either of you. It won’t hurt my feelings, or Wren’s, which as it turns out is the main benefit of having all your plans go to shit.”

“Oh, I want to marry you more than ever, Quentin Makepeace Coldwater,” the bride said, helpfully adding Mouse’s middle name to Martin’s list of clues. She stepped to her groom and laced her fingers behind his neck. “In the face of the chaos of the gods.”

“We make our own rules--” Mouse said and cut himself off to kiss her, long and slow and deep.

“Somehow, I think you’ve already done it,” the older woman mused. Pretty Boy slipped his hand into hers and squeezed.

“Well, come on, chickens, we’ve got a priest with a cord waiting, so let’s do it again, legit,” he declared, and held out an elbow to each of them, which they took. The group made their way towards the far end of the Square, no doubt to start the processional up the aisle.

 

None of them noticed Martin in the trees as they moved past him and he slid further back, putting up his invisibility shield and following behind.

[ _It’s a nice day for a white wedding,_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AAZQaYKZMTI) he thought darkly, and grinned.

 

tbc

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you on the edge of your seat? Me too! But hang on because I have to take a week off. We’re in tech for our show and they just changed all the stage combat on me and I’m losing my mind. Be sure to leave a comment, give me your theories as to how this fits into the show and what will happen next, I’d love to hear from you!
> 
> Also, I'm very tired as I'm finishing this, and I can't promise I won't read it after I've slept and find mistakes or minor tweaks I'd like to make. If anything really changes, which I'm not expecting, I'll leave a note here.
> 
> Be well, see you in two weeks.  
> <3  
> Trillian


	37. Jabberwock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot looks better than David Tennant. Quentin looks better in the rain. Arielle gets a new name.

The Square was filled with people, not unlike a Movie Night, only this time there was a wide aisle in the middle of the rows of chairs. MJ and Gee were hurriedly tying on the last of some flimsy flower bundles on the aisle seats. 

Mama walked with Wren behind her Mosaic kids, listening to them negotiate shoes. 

“Ari, let’s just send Gee to get them, isn’t that what bridesmaids are for, really?” Quentin asked. The bride’s feet were covered with icing and cake and grit. He made a move to magic them clean but Arielle held out her hand.

“Wait, don’t,” she said with a grin, “I kinda like it. A little dirty, a little sweet, I figure that sums me up. I should marry you just as I am.”

Mama could hardly pay attention, though, because walking behind them was a man she’d never seen before. No one else seemed to notice, though Wren sniffed the air curiously. The man was not from here, and had never been in their village before, Mama was sure, as travelers always came through the tavern unless they had family in town, and he definitely did not.

He was grinning happily, like everyone in the Square. His clothes were plain, not wedding attire, although without knowing his circumstances Mama couldn’t know if these were in fact his best. If it were anyone else, Mama would assume he was only going to follow them as far as finding a seat in the back, to join the festivities. But he wasn’t anyone else, he was A Stranger, and the skin on Mama’s arms prickled with alarm. 

The group reached the foot of the aisle. The man continued to the southeast corner of the Square, well behind the wedding area, where he stood looking happily around. 

At the head of the aisle, under the branches of the large oak tree which was strewn with ribbons, stood an arch with delicate vines carved out of wood latticing its sides.

“Oh, Eliot, were you trying to cover that up?” Arielle moaned. “MJ, that is beautiful work! Thank you!” She held out her arms and the girl slouched over to her, and shrugged, blushing.

“It was okay to put flowers on it,” MJ said as they hugged, “I just cut it like that to hold the vines.” 

“Which apparently didn’t arrive in time,” Eliot grumbled. “Well, it still needs light.” With a tut he drew fireflies to cover the arch frame.

Father Rand, who stood beneath it in his clerical robes, startled for only a second before turning back to them with an approving grin.

“Someone needs to get Gabby,” Gee said.

“We can’t wait on her, she’s working on the dessert,” Wren pointed out.

“Q, baby, strike up the band and let’s get this show on the road,” Eliot said, “If that’s alright with you, Ari.”

“Yeah, she’ll be okay,” Arielle agreed, “she’s probably happier in the bakery. I can’t wait to see what she’s working on.”

Quentin looked back to the River Road and smiled, then twisted his arms into the rhapsody tut, and Gish, who sat on a stool near the arch, began to play a lute-- which without the tut, he did not know how to do. [ The tune was soft and sweet ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zcKC5mN4XBI)and soon heads were nodding in the crowd.

“Wait, why isn’t Hund playing?” Wren demanded. “He’s been practicing for weeks!”

“He had to go home to the baby,” Quentin said, “because...” and he nodded to where Nalie was running up, out of breath but dressed in her bridesmaid gown which matched the twins’.

“You have to tell me these things!” Wren hissed to Quentin.

“I’m only getting married once? So…” the groom shrugged sheepishly.

“Oh, thank the gods I didn’t miss it,” Nalie said, as she hugged Arielle. 

“How’s Lin?” the bride asked.

“He’s sleeping, finally. I think the fever is breaking,” Nalie replied. “Hund’s got him, sorry to switch up on you, but--”

“It’s fine, I’m just sorry he’s sick!” Arielle said. “And with Q’s spell, Gish is doing fine. We’ll get Hund to play his for us sometime, I know he worked hard on it. I’m so glad you’re here,” she added, and hugged her maid of honor again.

“Enough chitchat!” Eliot fussed. “Wren, will you take Mama to her seat, please, this song isn’t infinitely long.”

“Right,” Wren said, and bowed to Mama. “May I escort you, Madam?”

“By all means,” Mama said, and they began their walk up the south side of the crowd to her front-row seat, passing by the stranger on their way.

He couldn’t know her boys, and Arielle had no family left after Shenna passed. He was too old to be an ex of the girl’s, and he wasn’t a former teacher since her aunts taught her at home. Mama’s remaining ideas were darker-- a lecher from Town who had eyes on her and followed her here? 

Wren sniffed the air again, and Mama realized he couldn’t see the man, or he would be barking at him to find him a seat. She avoided looking directly at him. Invisibility meant magic, so maybe it was _quest shit,_ as Eliot called it. The spell she’d sewn the sachet for was to guard against people trying to steal their prize or keep them from getting it. _Is this how it happens?_ she wondered. _A Magician sidling into their midst? But why attend the wedding? Why not just go back to the puzzle and try to solve it while the boys were out? So it must be about Arielle._

They had reached the front row, and Mama took her seat. Wren moved to his place by Rand at the arch, where he had a good view in case anything else went wrong.

Mama turned around in her seat to take in the proceedings. Nalie and Gee were walking up the aisle, Nalie still breathing hard from running. Her Mosaic kids soon followed, the bride and groom arm-in-arm with Eliot, who walked between them, grinning like a proud father. Quentin looked nervous, and a little embarrassed at being the center of the spectacle. Arielle was radiant, beaming a bright smile at all of their guests, her dress floating around her in the slight breeze that was picking up. 

The man still stood at the back of the crowd. His smile was unnerving, and he watched the wedding party intently, but Mama couldn’t tell who he was focused on. If he had designs on stopping this wedding, he wasn’t trying anything now-- and suddenly, everything that had happened today made sense. He had _already_ infiltrated them, all day, wreaking havoc while no one noticed him, and now he was waiting to make his big move. 

Eliot was trying to make eye contact with her-- his bright eyes said, _can you believe this is finally happening?--_ but they darkened when he read her worried look. He deposited his charge in front of Rand and stepped to the side, in front of her. “Mama, you alright?” he asked. 

“It’s probably nothing,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “But we should get a move on before it rains or somethin’.”

“Um, guys?” Arielle said, looking up at the sky. Dark clouds roiled above them, and thunder boomed in the distance.

The man was grinning again, and his hands were raised and moving. _A Magician,_ Mama thought. _Ember's balls. I didn’t mean to give him ideas._ “I’m just gonna--” Mama began to excuse herself, but no one was paying attention as they stared up at the suddenly darkening skies.

Eliot was trying to tut the clouds back, but they returned as quickly as he dispersed them, twice, before he gave up. “Chickens, I think we may be on the clock here,” he said. “Anybody mind if we make this quick, before it turns into _The Notebook?”_

“All this fancy was your idea, Magic Man,” Arielle said. “I just want to be married already and try this dress out on the dance floor. Q?”

“That sounds amazing,” Quentin agreed. “Let’s do that. And-- could we-- skip the personal vows? Mine didn’t-- um, I mean, I--”

“Who knew weather was the solution to that?” Eliot drolled. “I could have made some myself. Father? Have you got a rain pace version?” The priest nodded.

“Folks,” Rand addressed the crowd, “There are all kinds of ways to perform a wedding, but one way I always think people appreciate most is the shortest way.”

The crowd chuckled, and gave a sprinkling of applause. 

“Now don’t be so pleased, you’re missing an excellent sermon,” the priest quipped jovially. “Quentin, Arielle, we are all here today because we love you and want to rejoice with you as you begin a new life, in union. And no one loves you both more than your friend--”

“Our ride or die!” Arielle interjected. 

“Indeed. And as the greatest supporter of this union, you have asked him to bind you. Eliot, will you do the honors?” The priest held out a white cord, already tied in a bow with two large loops.

Mama had reached the man at the back, and suddenly swung to his side and grabbed his arm. “Well, hey there, stranger,” she said, her friendly toned darkened with warning. “Come to celebrate?”

The man’s eyes widened in shock. “You can-- see me?”

Eliot stepped forward and took the cord from Rand, placing one loop over Arielle’s hand and kissing her on the forehead, and then placing the other over Quentin’s and leaning in to whisper to him. He brought their hands together as Quentin looked up at him with eyes that welled with tears. As he took his place at the side of the group, he noticed Mama had gone and he knelt down to Wren, who nodded.

Mama gripped the man’s arm tighter. “I got eyes. Who the fuck are you, then?” 

The man waved his free hand and the skies darkened further. A strong gust of wind blew the fireflies off of the arch. Eliot frowned and waved them back into place.

The Stranger chuckled and patted Mama’s hand, which still gripped his arm, like they were old friends. “Who I am will be revealed in good time, I assure you,” he said calmly and quietly, keeping his eyes on the wedding party. “The _real_ question is, my dear lady, who the fuck are _you?_ Because not only can you see me, and not only can I not wrest my arm from your grip, but I find myself oddly not wanting to. What kind of magic is _that,_ I wonder?”

Rand was eliciting the couple’s vows, speaking quickly but calmly. “Arielle of the Mosaic, do you take Quentin to be yours, binding your houses for eternity?”

“I sure as heck do,” Arielle said happily, and the crowd murmured awws. 

“I ain’t magic,” Mama scoffed to the stranger. “Maybe it’s a sign.”

“Of what, pray tell? Do enlighten me, O Wise Woman of the Village,” he droned sarcastically.

“That you outta stay out of that weddin’. But then,” she added warily, “you’ve got range, don’t ya? Bet you could kill a cake from forty feet.”

“Much farther,” the man said, with a touch of pride. “And not just cake.”

“And Quentin of-- also of the Mosaic,” Rand was saying, “do you take Arielle to be yours, binding your houses for eternity?”

“I, um, do?” Quentin said earnestly, and grinned. The crowd chuckled. 

“Yes, you’ve been a busy little bee today, haven’t you?” Mama murmured to the man as she squeezed him arm tighter. “Not much sting to you, though. Your little schoolboy pranks didn’t stop the wedding. What happened? Did you get sweet on her and she told you to fuck off?”

The man laughed. “Perhaps this isn’t magic, and I simply don’t want to leave your side because you’re so amusing,” he said, patting her hand again. “It’s been a delightful morning, indeed. I couldn’t help myself. Who doesn’t love a wedding? Delusions of love, blind optimism, foolish promises, inevitable heartbreak...”

“So you’re not trying to stop it.”

“I’d be a bit late if I was,” he noted, nodding at the priest, who was completing the liturgy. “And besides, why would I want to stop them from creating their own personal hell?”

Mama rolled her eyes. “Yes, I get it, no one ever loved you, probably because you’ve always been a son-of-a-bitch, and it made you mean mad. Congratulations, you ain’t special.”

“I should warn you that I am starting to find you less amusing,” the man growled.

Wren trotted up to them, and sniffed at the air. “Mama,” he said cautiously, “are you alright?”

“Just the crazy ol’ lady standing in the back talkin’ to herself,” Mama retorted. “Every wedding needs one, did we not teach you that?”

“Should I-- get someone?” Wren asked, his head cocked.

“For what?” Mama snapped. “It’s just all got me thinkin’ about my shitty marriage. Just let me stay back here and stew until it’s _over.”_

Wren bowed to her. “Of course. I should have considered that. Right, then. I think I’ll join the others. Good day to you.” He trotted away, nails clicking on the stones of the pavement.

“The couple may now enjoy their first kiss as husband and wife,” Rand was declaring, and Arielle nearly pounced on Quentin for one of their forever kisses. The crowd erupted in applause as they stood, which was answered by more lightning and another crack of thunder, turning their cheers to gasps of fright. 

The Stranger was grinning again, and his free hand was tutting. 

“There’s an awful lot of show here with nothin’ to show for it,” Mama pointed out. “Or do you just like to play with your food first?”

The man sighed. “You have hit upon one of my many vices, yes,” he admitted, “although I prefer to think of it as _savoring.”_

“You’re trying to see what they can do, how much they can fight you off,” Mama mused. 

“Novices,” The Stranger scoffed. “Look at them. _They’re_ the schoolboys, playing games they don’t understand. I don’t know what she sees in them.”

“A woman’s got a right to make her own choices. Even if they don’t please you.”

“Oh, I’m pleased, she makes everything easy.”

Mama wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Not easy enough, though, or you’d have gotten them already.” She thought once again of the sachet, and watching her boys enchant it and Eliot placing it in the metal bowl with a flourish. “You can’t, can you? You already tried to kill Eliot and only tore his vest. Nothing works like you think it will, here, for you. _Because you’re not supposed to be here.”_

“Madam, I know you’re not telepathic. And I know you aren’t a witch. But your perception is uncanny, and I simply _must_ know how.” He gripped her hand tighter as he glared at her.

Rand was presenting the couple, “--Mr. Quentin Coldwater and Mrs. Arielle Coldwater-Waugh!” More cheers from the crowd. Quentin and Arielle, still tied loosely together, raised their joined hands and grinned widely at everyone. Eliot was nowhere to be seen.

It hurt, the way the man ground her finger bones together, but Mama didn’t let it show. She turned to The Stranger and met his eyes. “Well, I suppose it’s got somethin’ to do with how I’d lay down my life for those kids.” 

“Don’t tempt me,” the man chuckled darkly. “I’m struggling against my nature to keep the body count down as it is.” He grinned again as he raised his hand and gestured in a point. A bolt of lightning shot at the wedding arch. Nalie screamed in fright. It lurched from the blast but Rand, who still stood beneath it, held it steady with both hands to keep it from falling. Quentin put out the small fire that threatened to burn it all up, and the smell of wood smoke and ozone filled the air. 

“Why d’ya have to kill them at all?” Mama demanded. “Is she that important to you?”

“You don’t know whose side to be on,” The Stranger growled at her.

“You don’t know when you’re fucked.” Mama nodded at Eliot, who had come around the far side of the crowd, and was now levitating, [his fingertips sparking red.](https://tenor.com/view/magicians-gif-9853214)

Quentin and Arielle were leaning over Wren, as Quentin disentangled them from their cord. He looked up and saw Eliot in battle mode, then turned and spoke to his wife. She nodded and turned to Rand as the groom hurried down the aisle to where Eliot was floating, tearing off his suit jacket as he went.

“You done?” Eliot said to him, his eyes narrowed and focused on Mama.

“Yeah. You ready?”

“Always.”

Quentin began to tut and mutter a strange language under his breath. 

Rand had called out to the crowd and they were moving, but Mama couldn’t focus on anything but the grip of her hand on the man’s arm and the look in Eliot’s eyes. She didn’t know a man could look like that, like his skin was holding in not flesh, but fire.

The man next to Mama began to glow, and then the glow sort of-- shattered, like shining falling glass shards. He reeled backward and finally slipped from her grasp. Both of her boys were focused on him now, so that must have been his invisibility dropping away. Now that they had him in their sights, she backed away quickly.

“You!” Quentin shouted. “You’re-- real? Eliot, he’s the--”

“Frustrated. Fucking. Puzzle Man,” Eliot growled as he sent blast after blast at the man’s feet, making him dance away until he stumbled.  

“But she hadn’t even--” Quentin began.

“Q, he’s on a time journey, don’t tell him nothin’!” Mama cried out.

The Stranger was fighting back now, sending silver shards of light from his hands, but none of them came anywhere close to hitting anyone as Eliot’s blasts kept throwing him off-balance. 

Most of the villagers were with Rand on the east side of the Square, near the schoolhouse. But some of them-- Mama, Gish, Wicklet, Tassie, MJ, and a farmer named JP who had suffered Eliot’s crop circles a few months ago-- were advancing.

“Stay back, we’ve got this!” Quentin called out.

“No, let them all come,” the man cried, and between deflecting Eliot’s blasts he waved his hands again. The skies opened and rained poured down. “I’ll take them all!”

“He can’t, it’s your spell!” Mama exclaimed.

The Stranger threw up a shield around himself as the villagers began to surround him. “You’re so weak you have to have the peasants help you?” he sneered.

“They aren’t peasants! They’re our _friends!”_ Quentin said, and began to throw his own blasts at the man, but they were absorbed by the shield.

“Yeah, where’s yours?” Mama taunted. “Oh right, you don’t have any, you sick son-of-a-bitch.”

Eliot threw a shield around her just as The Stranger got a shot off.

Barry and Marty came out of the woods from the south side of the Square, behind the man, claws out and roaring, but The Stranger blipped out from between them just before they tore him apart. Everyone began to scramble. “Where did he go?” “He was right here!” 

Eliot’s voice boomed out as he flew higher and turned. “SHOW YOURSELF.” 

The Stranger’s laughter rang out from under the arch at the head of the aisle, and all heads turned to him. His hands were busy tutting. “I’ll get you all, my pretties, and your little dog, too!” he giggled, and flung an arm out to spread a wide multishot blast, but Eliot lifted all the chairs and they took the hits instead, splintering apart spectacularly in the air.

Quentin stepped in front of Eliot and advanced, sending balls of fire from his hands in quick succession. The Stranger’s shield began to flash and stutter. 

“Is that all you’ve got, you stupid children?” the man bellowed. 

“What do you want with her?” Eliot demanded as he flew up behind Quentin.

“Why are you protecting her?” the man shot back. 

“Because she’s my _wife!”_ Quentin screamed. “What did you do to her village?! Where is her _family?!”_

The Stranger froze, his eyes wide. The villagers had made their way around him, so that he had nowhere to run, but he seemed rooted to the spot.

Eliot was looming over him now, red fire passing between his hands. His voice was terrifyingly dark and vast when he began to speak slowly. “By the ancient rights of combat, I forbid you to scavenge here for the rest of time. And when you go back and tell others of this village, when you tell them of its people, its potential, then make sure that you tell them this… [ IT IS DEFENDED.” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMQaUxMowJo)

Arielle, who was sneaking up behind the man, hit him on the head with a shovel, and he dropped in a crumpled heap. [ “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YfpDSNNgYhI) she cried out.

Everyone cheered, Eliot lowered himself to the ground, Arielle dropped the shovel, and the two Mosaic men swept her up into their arms with the defeated Stranger at their feet, Quentin kissing her on the lips while Eliot kissed her head and the rain poured down over them all.

“Ari, that was stunning!” Eliot exclaimed. “I thought you didn’t like _Die Hard.”_

“But your David Tennant obsession finally paid off!” Quentin laughed.

“I saw Xena Warrior Princess coming and it was all I could think of to stall! Did I look as good doing it?” Eliot grinned.

“Are you kidding? He didn’t say it while levitating in a corset vest.” Quentin kissed him and then kissed his wife again, pushing her dripping hair which had fallen out of its updo behind her ear. “Are you okay?”

“Eliot,” Arielle teased, “you were so right, he looks even better in the rain.”

Eliot laughed and did a tut that finally succeeded in drying up the downpour and banishing the clouds.

The Stranger’s eyes fluttered open. “If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?” he croaked out, and vanished.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've said this before, but Mama's magic? Author Magic. :) Just this time, a little more literal than usual.
> 
> "JP" is an homage to the _Welcome To Nightvale_ podcast and its character who is always referred to as "John Peters, you know, the farmer". :) I couldn't justify that as a Fillorian name but if you can think of a good one with these initials I'll change it and credit you!
> 
> Oddly, I couldn’t find a link for this, but “rain pace” is a common phrase we Shakespearean theatre folk use for performing outdoors and trying to finish the show before it rains. It means speaking faster, but also may mean cutting long speeches, and other predetermined shortcuts like cutting songs or complicated set changes.
> 
> Another short one this week as I just don’t have enough days off when I’m not too tired to think. Next week we have the reception/post-battle party, a whole bunch of fluffy goodness, perhaps a Martin epilogue from whenever he ran off to, and at long last, Jenna and Cleve’s surprise, which they were working on while they missed all this excitement. :) It will also probably come out later in the week, I'm all off-schedule now.
> 
> Edited to add: As soon as the show closed I took off for Virginia to the Blackfriars conference for early modern drama scholars and was gone for a week. I'm back and writing but rather than rushing it I'm working on giving you some goodness for your patience. Aiming for this Monday if all goes well. :)


	38. A Sunny Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath, and a film homage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A boat beneath a sunny sky,/ Lingering onward dreamily/ In an evening of July —" -- from a poem at the end of Through The Looking Glass

Mama’s heart was still beating fast as she walked up closer to her Mosaics, untying the ribbon with which she had pulled back her long wavy hair as she went. It was soaked, as was she, though the many layers she wore kept most of it off of her skin. 

Arielle, on the other hand, was in a very thin bridal gown, now see-through and clinging to her slightly-rounded belly. The bride pulled back from their group to throw her arms around Mama instead. She was trembling, though whether it was from being wet and cold or the adrenaline rush of knocking out The Stranger, Mama couldn’t tell. 

The Stranger had vanished from where he had fallen, after quoting _The Book of Umber_ of all things, but unlike before, he did not reappear elsewhere in the Square. Mama’s gut, her _magic_ as the man had called it, told her he was gone, for now. After all, he’d had his ass kicked pretty good by the Coldwater-Waughs, and perhaps he’d finally realized all his efforts to harm them were in vain. 

Quentin, his shirt sticking to his skin and his hair dripping down his shoulders, began a complicated-looking tut. 

Eliot hugged Mama around the shoulders and kissed her wet hair. “Are you alright? You saved us all, Mata Hari, by sending Wren with that code. How in the world did you see and hang onto an invisible Magician?”

Mama shook her head. “Sometimes things just work different for me, I don’t know why. And anyway, you saved yourselves, I think. Doesn’t seem like anyone got hurt. The baby alright?”

Arielle nodded. “I never really got closer than a shovel-length away from him,” she giggled. 

“Now I know why Q calls you Slugger. Got quite an arm on you there,” Mama laughed, and hugged her tightly.

“Everyone okay here?” Eliot called out to the villagers who had stayed in the Square to fight.

“JP got a--” Wicklet began, but the farmer waved him off. 

“I’m fine, just took a bit of chair shrapnel. Nothin’ I can’t handle,” JP insisted, though he kept his hand pressed to his bicep. “You should go check on your litter up t’the schoolhouse,” he added to the dog. 

Tassie had run up to Wren, and was nosing him as she sniffed for blood. “You shouldn’t have gotten so close,” she admonished her son, “you don’t have any experience in herding!”

“I’m _fine,_ Mom,” the younger dog insisted, “Go check on the little ones.” He turned to survey the rain damage to his clothes. “Though my vest was spell-clean-only, so I guess that’s ruined,” he added with a whine. Tassie gave his face a quick lick of comfort, and then trotted off with Wicklet to the schoolhouse, where most of the rest of the villagers had retreated. 

Quentin was muttering under his breath, then gave a push with his hands. A disc of light spread out quickly from their group and through the Square, and everyone froze. Mama wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen in response, but nothing did. 

“Fuck,” Quentin muttered, and began again.

“What are you even basing it on?” Eliot grumbled, as he unhooked his corset, revealing that most of his shirt was still dry underneath. “Wren, are their bags in the Wayward Room?” 

The dog nodded as MJ knelt to unbutton his drenched vest so he could shake off the rainwater. 

“Good. Take Ari up there to change--”

“No!” Quentin said sharply as he continued working his hands. “She’s not leaving our sight.”

“Quentin--” Arielle moaned as she pulled flowers out of her hair. “Godsdamn it, this is going to turn into a _thing,_ isn’t it? Where I’m your prisoner, under guard all the time? _I’m_ the one who took him down in the end, for Ember’s sake!”

“I’m not sure he’s after _her,_ anyway,” Mama said as she took off her duster jacket and shook the water off of it. “He only ever focused on you.”

Eliot frowned at her. “We should talk about that.” He turned to the shorter Magician, whose brow was furrowed in concentration as he tutted. “Q, if he shows up with her then that locator spell you’re doing will just lead us to her anyway. Wren, take her to change--”

“I don’t need Wren to--” Arielle began.

“We’re on the buddy system now,” Eliot cut her off. “No one goes anywhere alone. And you need to check on Jenna and Cleve and make sure they’re all right. Rand,” he said to the priest who joined the group, Nalie and Gee following behind, “are you alright? Is everyone over there okay?”

“Yes, the, um, battle? Didn’t make it that far.” His face was pale and he sounded shook. “How is-- everyone here?”

“Wet and getting cold, and JP got a cut, I guess, but otherwise we’re fine,” Eliot reassured him. “Could you spread the word that the reception is cancelled--”

“Oh, Eliot, come _on!”_ Arielle whined. “We aren’t _cancelling!_ He tried to ruin this wedding and we can’t just _let_ him!”

Quentin fired off another blast of light which rippled through the Square but again brought no response. “Fuck,” he said, more exasperated this time, and began again.

“He could come back,” Eliot insisted to Arielle. “We can’t put everyone in danger.”

“Put up a shield around us. You can do that, right? Like a big dome.”  

“That isn’t as easy as it sounds.”

“We could have everyone over to New House,” Nalie offered. “We know we all fit in the barn. Could you ward that up?”

“More doable,” Eliot agreed, as Quentin fired off another blast, cursing again as it continued to have no effect. “But it wouldn’t let anyone in or out.”

“Then tell everyone to go home and dry off and change and meet at New House in, what? Two hours?” Arielle said, her teeth beginning to click together as she spoke. “And we put it up then, and everyone has to stay for the duration. _Please?”_

“As you wish,” Eliot sighed. “But you have to go get changed _now._ Rand, spread the word. MJ and Gee, go check on Gabby. Mama, if you can, you should stay here with us.” 

Arielle leaned in to kiss her new husband, who obliged quickly, but didn’t stop tutting. The various groups split off, leaving Eliot, Mama, and Quentin alone in the wreckage of the Square.

Eliot turned to Quentin, putting a hand on his arm. “Q, stop. We can’t use Tillinger’s spell here, that only works on Earth, clearly. This place is soaked in magic, it just absorbs it. We need something more to go on. Mama, did he drop anything, or leave anything with you?”

“Just some bruises on my hand,” Mama said. 

Eliot took her hand and inspected it. “Are you alright? What did he do?”

“Nothing, really. He just gripped it really tight. I don’t think he could really _do_ anything. Think about it. He pulled all kinds of shit today, but he only really tried to hurt you once, when he tore your vest, El. I think he tried to kill you, then.”

Eliot froze, his face white stone. Quentin gasped and finally stopped his tutting, grabbing Eliot by the arm. Eliot slipped his arm around his friend’s shoulders and Quentin moved his arm around Eliot’s waist, and Mama saw the two men with new eyes. Watching them battle together was a glorious, though terrifying, sight. She thought she had understood their bond before-- a powerful love, like she had with her late husband-- but seeing them move in concert as they brandished their magic, fearless and strong together, she finally grokked it, as Quentin would say. There were untold depths in this lake between them that she had only seen a glimpse of today, and hopefully never would again.

“I accused him of it, anyway, and he didn’t deny it,” she continued. “And it really pissed him off. And then when you fought--”

“He showed off a lot of tricks but never hurt anyone,” Eliot said thoughtfully, absentmindedly petting Quentin’s wet hair.

 _“Forever, My Love?”_ Quentin said, his eyes wide. “Holy shit. It really _works?_ On _everyone?”_

“Guess so,” Mama shrugged. “You might have thought to include the furniture in it, though,” she added, motioning to the splintered wood that covered the Square. 

“You said he was time traveling?” Eliot prodded.

“I mean, I don’t know for sure. He didn’t _say_ that, but that’s what your spell protects from, right? It wouldn’t work against anyone who is already here, and part of all this, isn’t that true? So he must have time journeyed here--”

“Or jumped dimensions. A traveler?” Quentin asked Eliot.

The taller man shrugged. “He teleported in the Square, so… maybe?”

“He seemed like he was dealing with… something bigger. That you are a part of. Involving a woman, but… not Ari? Have you boys got a side hustle goin’ on in some alternate dimension?”

“Sure, in all our spare time,” Eliot laughed and ran his hands through his wet curls. “I mean, our quest is part of a set, and there are women working on it with us, Margo, Julia, Kady--” 

“To get this guy, bring him down?” Mama asked.

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Eliot waved this away with a hand. “I don’t think so, anyway. We haven’t finished it. I guess there could be a _Monster at the End of This Book,_ but--”

“I don’t understand why we don’t think this is about Ari anymore,” Quentin demanded, pulling away from Eliot.

“Why would this be about Ari?” Mama asked. “I know he was being a dick when he said it, but we _are_ actually peasants. And you are actually Magicians on a quest. Why wouldn’t this be about that?”

Eliot sighed. “That-- is not a conversation we can have out here in the open.”

“She in trouble?” 

“Maybe,” Eliot admitted as he slipped off his vest entirely. “We hoped it had passed.”

“But when some asshole is boppin’ about through time, it’s never really over, is it?”

“We didn’t know he was doing that?” Quentin said. “That’s-- new information.”

“If it’s the same-- _situation,”_ Mama frowned. “He was just so fixated on you boys. Ari wasn’t with her magical protection posse most of the morning, and where was he? On the other side of the village takin’ swipes at Eliot.”

“But he _specifically_ asked why we were protecting her!” Quentin insisted. “And yes, there’s Julia, and Margo, and Kady, and Alice too, sort of, but we aren’t _protecting_ them, if anything it’s the other way around? Kady could kick all our asses while ordering coffee on her phone--”

“And Margo could kick the coffee boy’s ass while ordering all of us around,” Eliot added dryly.

“We know he’s angry about a woman,” Quentin reasoned. “And if it’s not Ari then I just don’t know what to think.”

“Awful lot of _she_ and _her_ talk, though, and no names, I dunno…” Mama mused. 

“Maybe it’s something we haven’t done yet?” Eliot suggested.

“Well, _fuck,_ Eliot, if it can be anything or anyone from any time, then all bets are fucking off!” Quentin huffed, flapping his arms against his sides. “And what are we supposed to do about _that?”_

“Trust your spell,” Mama said simply. “You set it up to protect against this very threat. And it worked. He seemed pretty powerful, but he couldn’t lay a finger on you. I think whatever you need to do, you’ve already done it.”

“He could be anywhere--” Quentin insisted.

Mama shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think you handed him his ass and he’s gone back to wherever he came from to lick his wounds and regroup.”

“You can’t _know_ that!”

“I know. But… I do, somehow. Can’t you feel it? Probably not, you’re all hopped up from the battle. But there’s a calm here, a sweetness to the air that hasn’t been here all day. I don’t know how to describe it, but I really believe you can stand down, at least for now.”

“But with time travel, he could take years and still come back in minutes,” Quentin insisted.

“Yep, I can’t argue with you there.”

“She’s right, though, Q,” Eliot said. _“Forever, My Love_ is doing its job. He made a huge mess, and I can’t promise he won’t again, but he can’t hurt us.”

“He hurt JP--”

“And he could use some help with that,” Mama pointed out. “Does your mending work on people?”

“Sort of? But anyway they taught us some first aid spells after-- while you were in-- stuck at your job,” Quentin added to Eliot. “I’ll go check on him.”

“Q, you’re soaked--” Eliot began.

“And he’s bleeding,” Quentin said with a sigh, shoving his hair behind his ear and relaxing a bit in the shoulders, which Mama took as him moving on to the tasks at hand. “El, I’m fine. I’ll go up and get changed in a minute--”

“No!” Eliot and Mama said in unison, and Quentin looked worried and confused.

“Sorry, we just-- still have a surprise up there for you,” Eliot added with a fond smile.

“And I’ll go check on that,” Mama said. “It was for later, but if it’s ready I’ll come get you.”

Quentin playfully narrowed his eyes at them and went off to where JP was still talking with Gish.

“Eliot,” Mama continued, “you’ve got a lot of work to do, too, setting up New House. I don’t know how long magic takes, but Nalie and Hund will need help getting ready for company, too. You and Rand,” she added, nodding at the priest who was approaching, “can stop off at the Mosaic and change on the way.”

Rand laughed at this and pulled off his priest’s robes, revealing his clothes entirely dry underneath. “Waterproof,” he said with a grin. “One of Ember’s favorite tricks is rain at a wedding.”

“Pretty and smart,” Eliot sighed happily, and took his hand. He looked around at the splintered wood that lay like a carpet on the paving of the Square. “Well, I guess I can clean up this mess later, since we’re not having the party here. I’m sorry I don’t get to see the Wayward Room reveal but, the next thing, right?”

“The next thing,” Mama agreed. “And we all have a lot to celebrate. Not just the wedding, but how we all beat that asshole into submission. Got a song for that?” she teased.

“Queen has a thing to say,” Eliot laughed. “And send Wren over when you’ve got all that set up there, we could use his party planning expertise.”

“Which queen?” Rand asked, as they walked off hand-in-hand to the River Road.

 

As Mama reached the top of the stairs to the deck, she found Arielle, now dressed in her next-day dress-- the white one from Movie Night which Eliot had altered to fit her growing waist-- and her hair wrapped up in a towel, telling Jenna and Cleve about the battle downstairs. They were both dry, and Mama surmised they had hidden from the rain inside the tavern.

“Eliot can _fly?”_ Jenna was saying, with wide eyes, as she shook a wet tablecloth over the railing.

“I cain’t believe I missed the whole darn thing,” Cleve groused as he swept water off the side of the deck with a broom. 

“Mama,” Arielle said as the tapster came out onto the deck, “can I get up into your attic for one of Biddy’s tablecloths? This one is soaked.”

“Sure, hon, you didn’t have to ask,” Mama said. “What do we think about bringing your groom up early? He could use a change of clothes and some quiet time alone with you, I think, before the reception party.”

“Is he alright?” Arielle asked, worried.

“Running on adrenaline,” Mama said. “And tending to JP. Magic makes him hungry, I could warm up the supper I made you for later and bring it up.”

“You need to change, Mama, I can do it,” Jenna offered.  

“We need everyone out here putting up decorations,” Wren insisted. “They pulled the paper trees and lanterns in before they could get wet--” he explained to Mama.

Cleve cut him off. “Well, we hadn’t gotten them up yet when it started,” he confessed, and Jenna ducked her head and blushed. 

 _Can’t leave them alone for two minutes,_ Mama thought with a grin.

“Whatever,” Wren mumbled in irritation. “We need to get those up and reset the table, and I can’t help with any of that,” he added sadly.

“Tell you what, Eliot could use some help down t’New House,” Mama replied warmly. “He needs his Siri Bean, he asked for you specifically.”

Wren brightened at this, and took charge once again. “Alright then, Jenna, whip up the supper, Ari, you get the tablecloth and then help Cleve set up. Remember, Mr. Eliot said this should look like _beautiful_ places, _romantic_ places, places Mr. Quentin wants to go. This is their _honeymoon.”_

“What are they, ducks?” Cleve grumbled as he continued to sweep rainwater over the side of the deck.

“Don’t take too long,” Mama admonished, “I don’t know how long Quentin needs to magic JP back together but he’s wetter than a mad hen.”

She went inside her apartment, followed by Arielle who went up into the attic. She dried her hair with a towel and found a new ribbon to tie it back with, and changed her clothes and shoes. When she reappeared out on the deck, she found Arielle holding onto Cleve’s hips as he stood on the railing to tie up one of the paper trees MJ had made for the occasion to the eaves of the building. 

“Cleve Howser, get down from there before you break your godsdamn neck,” Mama chastised.

“Hold on, I’ve almost got it-- there,” he said with satisfaction as he put his hands on Arielle’s shoulders to climb down. “Alright, so we just need the posters up, I can do that while Ari sets the table.”

“So can I go fetch the groom?” Mama asked.

“If you take your time about it, we should be fine,” Arielle agreed. 

“I’ll check on Jenna on the way. No sign of-- trouble?” she added in a low voice.

“Not a bit,” Arielle reassured her.

“You seem in good spirits for someone who just had a battle for a wedding.”

“Well, aren’t all weddings a battle of some kind?” Arielle laughed. “Look, if there’s anything I learned from my aunts, it’s that no matter the danger, you still have to live your life the way you want to. _A rabbit that’s too scared to leave the warren lives his life in the dark,_ Aunt Bea always said. And I ain’t goin’ out like that,” she added defiantly, her hands on her hips.

Mama chuckled. Shenna used to say that, too. “Alright then, I’ll check on supper and then go get Q.”

“Should we give some kind of secret signal?” Cleve asked excitedly. 

 _Poor man missed all the fun,_ Mama thought, and grinned at him. “Sure, give a whistle and I’ll bring him.”

 

Downstairs in the kitchen, Jenna was flipping over fish in a cast iron skillet. 

“Need a hand?” Mama asked.

“This is about done, I think, and the sides are warming in the hearth. Don’t know where to find a tray to bring it up, though.”

“I’ll get you one,” Mama said, and squatted down to rummage around in the lower cabinets. “So… should I ask Rand when he’s available to handfast you and Cleve?”

Jenna giggled. “After today, I’m not sure I want to go through all the trouble.”

“Oh, well, that’s just Eliot. Weddings here in the Village aren’t usually such a fuss. Or, you know, feature battle magic,” Mama added as she stood, rolling her eyes. She handed the tray to the tailor. 

“What _was_ all that about?”

Mama shrugged. “I don’t know. You know they’re on a quest, right? Guess it had something to do with that. Magicians, _pfft.”_

“Will that guy come back?”

“Not today.”

“You sound pretty sure. Little bird tell ya?” Jenna asked as she slid the fish onto the plates.

“Sometimes I get tips from a swan,” Mama chuckled. “Nevermind,” she added to Jenna’s confused look. “I don’t know for sure, but he _feels_ gone. And as Arielle was just saying, we can’t live in fear. Gotta just get on with it. Speaking of which, I’d better go get Quentin before this supper gets cold.”

“Drinks?”

“Quentin likes cider, it’s in the bar. Arielle will have to stick to water. Don’t try to take it all at once, though, the stairs are narrow. Send Cleve down for the drinks. He needs to give me a signal anyway.”

Jenna laughed at this. “Nothin’ he loves more than a secret signal.”

“I’m tellin’ you, you oughta marry that man. I haven’t known you long but you seem really happy, and Cleve is over the moon ever since he met you.”

“We’ll see. I haven’t known you long, either, but you’re always right, as far as I can tell.”

“Most of the time,” Mama sighed, and made for the door.

She found Quentin in the Square surrounded by Gish and JP-- his sleeve torn but otherwise showing no signs of injury-- as he tried to magic a chair back together. The splintered wood floated and spun in the air, some pieces coming together, but most of it just hovering. Quentin spread his hands flat and the pieces lowered to the ground. “I think some parts of it are just dust now,” he said sadly. “Man, MJ put a lot of work into these, it’s such a shame.”

“But we’re all still standing, and those are just chairs,” Mama said sagely. “And anyway, we can send her off to Seren with a new order. JP, how’s the arm?”

“All healed, look,” the farmer said, spreading the cut sleeve open to show her. “Quentin worked a wonder on it.”

Mama turned back to Quentin. “You doin’ okay?”

“Just tired, bit of a headache, and getting hungry,” the Magician said. “How’s Ari?”

“Your wife--” Mama began, and Quentin blushed and tucked his hair behind his ear with a grin at the term, “--is just fine, and anxious to see you. We got you a supper together--”

“Already?”

“I had one prepped for your surprise, which is just about ready. We’re just waiting on--”

Cleve whistled from the tavern door, as Hund made his way inside past him.

“--the signal,” Mama finished. “And that was it. Ready?”

Quentin nodded. He turned to his friends. “Thanks, you guys, I mean it.”

“Aw, we didn’t do nothin’,” demurred Gish.

“But you stepped up to help battle a Magician and I mean it, you’re really good friends. Thank you.” The men all shook hands and Quentin and Mama turned to cross the Square to the tavern.

“Mama? Do you think that we’re really safe?”

She hooked her arm through his. “Today we are, love. And you did a hell of a job with that spell, or you will, or whatever. And whatever happens, we’ll get through it.”

“Thank you, Mama. I’m sorry that we brought all this on you.”

“You didn’t do anything but save us all,” Mama reassured him. “That bastard is responsible for his own actions. No more talk like that. You know, everyone calls me Mama but you’re the one that feels like my own son, and I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

Quentin wiped at his eyes. “Oh, Mama. I didn’t-- spend a lot of time? With my own mom, growing up, you know, and I don’t want to be unfair to her? But you know, she’s Mom, and not here, but you’re _Mama,_ and--”

“I know, son. I love you too,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze. 

 

Quentin paused at the top of the stairs to the deck, Mama following behind. 

“Hiya, Qu-- um, good evening, sir,” Cleve said, bowing. “Ontray, monsewer, ontray…”

The deck was lit with paper lanterns, and inside of each flew a few trapped fireflies. Paper palm trees graced the edges of the railing, tied to the walls to hold up their drooping paper fronds. Strings of flowers looped around the railing. 

There was a little table set up, dinner for two by candlelight.

On the door to the Wayward Room was a small handpainted sign that read, “BRIDAL SUITE”. 

The door was open, with more fireflies dancing inside, dry clothes for Quentin laid out on the bed, and two sets of slippers next to it.

All around the deck, and inside the room, were handpainted travel posters of beaches and palm trees, with labels like “Cancun” and “Hawaii”. One featured white tents on a rocky shore and read, “Ibiza, Ecanto Occulto”.

Hund was sitting on a stool in the corner, strumming a tropical tune on his lute. 

Arielle stood by the table, looking a bit nervous. “Welcome to the honeymoon, Mr. Coldwater.”

“Ari-- how did you--” Quentin began, and Mama pushed him by the shoulders, sending him to his bride. He took her in his arms and kissed her, then pressed his cheek to hers and held her tight.

“Do you remember blowing on dandelions on our first date?” she whispered in his ear. “This is what I wished for.”

Hund stopped his tune and began another, singing with Cleve in harmony.

_I love you truly_

_Truly dear,_

_Life with it's sorrow,_

_Life with it's fear,_

_Fades into dreams when I_

_Feel you are near,_

_For I love you truly,_

_Truly dear…_

Quentin looked at Arielle, his eyes wide with wonder. “It’s--”

[ “A Wonderful Life,” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i6W8bGR_O4s&t=8s) Arielle finished. “Eliot told me it was one of your favorites.”

“Oh, Ari--” Quentin began, and then they fell into a forever kiss.

“I think that’s our cue, gang,” Mama whispered, and everyone made their way quietly to the stairs, leaving the newlyweds lost in their kiss.

And not for the first time or the last, Mama wished she knew how to make a Mosaic pattern out of this moment. _The beauty of all life._

 

*

 

Martin gasped as he came back into himself. The bride, Arielle. She was perhaps the lone survivor from his displaced Village. He had to know more about her, the Magician’s weakness, and this time, he was going as himself, no more piddling around with possession. If he had all twelve of his fingers, he surely would have been more prepared for the battle. He wouldn’t get caught short again.

It took months to work out the spells that would send him into the map and back in time with his whole body, and still, without a date he couldn’t pinpoint his arrival. But he was as ready as he was going to be, so he dressed in a long cloak with a hood that hid his face in shadow, and long sleeves he could drop over his six-fingered hands, and slipped into Farther Town, a place he hoped was big enough a stranger could enter unremarked. 

Lingering around taverns and cafes listening for gossip and asking careful questions of the townsfolk was not his strong suit. He fought his impatience with everyone he came in contact with for weeks, taking out his frustrations on the occasional teenaged boy he found out alone at night. All he had gleaned so far was that there had been a village nearby that had vanished, leaving a circular flat scar in the land in its place, about nine years before. But no talk of a girl, or anyone else, escaping the fate of the others, and he was beginning to think this was all a waste of his time, although he would arrive home when he left.

And then, as Martin once again set out for the night, a woman in colorful clothes came into the inn, looking for a room.

“Sister Tressa! So glad to see you back, dear,” the fat innkeeper chortled. “Got a break from babysitting duty with the hens?”   


 

 _“And what’s he then that says I play the villain?”_ Martin chuckled as he patted down the unmarked gravesite deep in the woods. Iago was his favorite Shakespearean character, and he felt some pride at surpassing him-- even though he was fictional-- by not getting caught. And after all, he had given the tortured woman a decent burial, even though no one would ever find the grave. It was the least he could do.

He knew when to find them, but they weren’t with the puzzle on that day and would be on their guard after his last attack. But that guard would slip, eventually. Let them wait. Let them become complacent. Martin had all the time in the world.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reception will have to wait until next week, those of you who are parents will appreciate that being gone for a week just means your to-do list stacks up. 
> 
> I'm unsure about the placement of Martin's epilogue, if it should follow the end of the wedding chapters (i.e. the end of the next chapter), or in some other place-- the beginning of this one, in the middle of this one before the It's a Wonderful Life scene, at the beginning of the next chapter, or any other place. But, I had it written and you've all been so patient with me, I wanted to give you whatever I had. One advantage to its placement before the reception is it lets _us_ all relax and enjoy the fluffiness that will certainly ensue, knowing that Martin will not return today. But I would very much appreciate your feedback on this.
> 
> The other feedback I need is, have I convincingly made the turn that everyone _in_ the story can stand down and relax for the night? I meant for this to feel like, "okay, we're done," but the only definitive way was to kill the Puzzle Man puppet and I thought that was too dark (and might make their friends wary of them). It was a struggle to talk them down out of red alert mode. Did I manage it? Or does it seem unearned that they stand down (ish, they are still on their guard somewhat) so soon or so easily? Please let me know what you think, I'm happy to keep tinkering with this in the future, or perhaps bat cleanup in my next chapter, have them talk about it some more.
> 
> Thanks again for sticking with me on this and I really hope to hear from you!  
> <3  
> Trillian


	39. Reception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mama makes stew, Gabby makes dessert, Wren makes plans, Quentin makes a speech, Arielle makes a confession, and Eliot makes a promise.

Quentin emerged from the Bridal Suite--formerly the Wayward Room-- in fresh clothes, swigging from the jug of cider he’d taken in with him. It would be reasonable, he thought, to be nervous. He’d never had a wedding night before, and it was a feature of lore immemorial-- the nervous groom, the blushing bride. But he’d never had a wedding before either, and that didn’t go at _all_ as he had pictured it. Eliot had been glorious, and he’d never forget the look of determination and grit on Arielle’s face as she swung the shovel. And whether it was the battle that had burned off his nervous energy, or the sight of his friends advancing to help, or all the love from everyone he had felt that day, or just that at the end of it was Arielle-- not his “blushing bride” but just _Ari,_ with her direct and clear-eyed love of him and everyone and everything-- he was feeling calmer than he had in ages.

His arms ached as they usually did after that kind of magic-- although he was unsure if it was from the magic itself coursing through his veins, or simply from moving his arms in ways he usually didn’t. He hoped his wedding night would involve him being mostly on his back, and missed Advil for the thousand and fifth time. Cider would have to do. And food, he was ravenous.

Arielle was sitting at their candlelit table for two, but her chair was pushed back from the table, her bare feet-- now clean-- on the railing, and she was staring out at the trees, a cup of water in one hand. The other tore off a small piece of bread which she threw over the railing, setting off the wards which shimmered gold and disappeared again. 

 _Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage_ popped into Quentin’s head and weighed down his heart. It wasn’t fair, she had her own monster, and he was supposed to be _her_ protector. Instead she’d fought off _his_ monster with a shovel, and in return she was trapped in wards he knew she hated. “I thought you were going to start eating,” he said, tossing the towel he’d used on his hair over the railing, which set off the shimmer again as the end of it flicked against the wards. He placed a hand on her shoulder as he kissed her head. “Are you getting night sickness again?” The so-called morning sickness did not necessarily adhere to the clock.

“No, it’s not that. I was-- I just--” She waved a hand helplessly. 

“I know. I’m so sorry, Ari,” he said, kissing her head again. 

“It’s not _your_ fault,” she sighed, taking his hand. “We knew he’d come eventually. I’m just sorry it ruined the day that Eliot worked so hard for. And now I don’t know what to do. If this were my old life, I’d be packing, sending rabbits to another aunt, thinking of a new name… But this is different, you can’t leave the puzzle, or Eliot, and I can’t leave you, and anyway the Sisters are-- gone, so--” 

“Oh, wait, Ari, this wasn’t about you!” He leaned over to set the jug down and moved around her chair to kneel in front of her as she brought her feet down from the railing. He took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “I’m sorry, I should have filled you in as soon as I got up here. This wasn’t your witch or whatever, this was _our_ stalker, and I am so, _so_ sorry we got you mixed up in this.”

Arielle froze. “Wait, _what?”_

“He was after _us,_ not you.”

“Okay, stop, stop,” she said, letting go of his hand to wave her arms in front of her face. “Are you telling me that instead of handily defending myself, and finally conking that sonofabitch in the head after all these years of dreaming about that-- that wasn’t what-- _happened?_ I was actually protecting-- _you?_ You and _Eliot?!”_

Quentin laughed and leaned up to kiss her. “Please, please promise me you will tell Eliot that he was a rescued damsel in distress. He will fucking _love_ that.” He rose and took his place at the table. “We will have to suffer weeks of his Scarlett O’Hara accent, but it will be worth it. A wedding present. I’m sorry you didn’t really get your revenge dream? But, I mean, for what it’s worth, _this_ sonofabitch deserved it too, if that helps.”

“Well, if I’d known I was saving _you,_ I would have hit him twice as hard!” she declared. “Ember’s balls, who the fuck is after _you?”_  

 _Xena Warrior Princess,_ Quentin thought with a grin. “It was some guy who wants the puzzle?” he said, as he reached for his cider jug and filled his tankard. “Or something? He thinks we’re in cahoots with someone--”

“Cahoots, lol. You’ve gone native, Husband,” she teased, as she pulled her chair up and took a fork to her supper.

Quentin squinted playfully at her. “We say that back home, too, _Wife._ Wife who says _lol_ like it’s a word. Anyway, Mama says he won’t be back, at least not tonight. And he can’t hurt us, I guess? Because of our persistence spell. Which doesn’t take away from what you did for us? That might even be part of it, somehow. My badass shovel-wielding wife.” He raised his mug to her in salute and drank, and then lifted the cover off of his food-- which turned out to be fish-- and began to tuck into it unceremoniously. Magic burned a lot of calories.

“The ribbon spell? No shit, it really _works?”_ Arielle squealed. “Oh, Q, you did it!”

Quentin bowed his head to her and grinned, tucking his hair behind his ear. “Or, I will do it, I guess.” 

“Well, it’s a smart plan. You knew someone might come after you, and you took care of it. The Sisters would be proud.” She reached for his free hand and squeezed it.

“And Eliot,” he pointed out as he squeezed back. “He came up with most of the tuts, and he’ll pick the song, eventually. I just-- I don’t know what to do until that guy comes back. I feel like I should be prepping for that? But I don’t know how.” He shoveled another bite.

“You think he will?”

Quentin shrugged, and finished his mouthful of food before continuing. The direct approach was always best with Arielle. “Whatever he was mad about, he didn’t stop us, or kill us. So yeah, I think he’ll keep trying. There’s only two ways I can think of that he’ll stop? One, we solve the puzzle, then there’s no reason to come after us anymore, he can have the damn thing, if that’s what it’s about. Hell, I’ll leave him the final pattern, I don’t think it will work twice anyway. But, two, if he thinks we’re working for someone else? Or we’re part of some bigger plan? Like, okay, you know how in the _Buffy_ stories we told you there’s like, the monster of the week, right, and they’re all working for the season’s Big Bad on some master plan?”

“Mm-hmm. So which one is he? A weekly one or the big one?”

“No, I mean like, the opposite. We’re the-- or he thinks we are? Good Magicians working for a… Big Good? I guess? This is getting away from me. I just mean, if he thinks he’s going up against some big plan? Headed up by someone else, someone powerful? And he thinks we’re working for them? Which we aren’t, of course, but some stuff he said to Mama, I guess that’s what he thinks? That we’re just a link in a chain to whoever he’s really after. Then it’s not really _about_ us, going after us is just a way to weaken the master plan--”

“But if he can’t get to you because of the spell, you’re not a weak link, so he’ll give up on you and find another one.”

“Yeah,” Quentin sighed. “But you gotta think, he’s going to test that link more than once, right? Before he’s sure? So I think he’ll be back. And he might be time traveling, so--”

“Aw, fuck,” Arielle said, tossing her fork down onto her plate. “So he could pop up at any time. Just like my stalker. Well, shit, aren’t we a pair?” she added with a laugh.

“Makes me want to make a joke about us being wanted outlaws, but it’s more like a zombie movie, we’re hunkered down and fending them off. Thank god for Eliot, he’s always been better at the battle magic, I think because he’s telekinetic. Or,” he chuckled, “maybe because he’s better at everything. Even if the spell _isn’t_ perfect, we’re safe as long as he’s here, at least. And Mama says we’re safe for the night, plus I warded the whole tavern, as I guess you noticed. Sorry about that.” 

“Well, I mean, I don’t care for it and I don’t know how we’re going to keep it going in our real lives, but at least it looks pretty.” She threw another bit of bread at it and the golden glow added to the fireflies and the candlelight. “And it does make me feel safe. So do you,” she added with a loving look. 

“Safe enough to forget about it for the night? I don’t mean to like, ignore your trauma or anything? But Eliot is still throwing us a party, if you’re up for it.”

 _“Ignore my trauma,”_ she scoffed. “Shit came up and we took care of it. Just like any other day.”

“Really, though?” he asked worriedly. This sounded like classic denial, maybe shock. “This wasn’t normal shit.”

“Really. Honestly, Q, I’ve lived my whole life-- well, most of it, anyway-- on the run from-- someone. And this may not have been the _same_ someone, but it didn’t feel traumatic, it felt _cathartic._ I wish my stalker _would_ show up now, I kinda want to do it again,” she giggled. “And anyway, watching _Queliot_ snap into action was a hell of a show! Eliot was flying and glowing red and you were shooting out blue light, it was-- _amazing._ Are you sure _you’re_ okay?”

Quentin shrugged. “I guess it wouldn’t surprise you to know that wasn’t our first fight. This is how our lives were, before we came here. I’m-- disappointed, I guess? That this kind of-- thing-- followed us? Even into this life. But this is-- familiar, I guess. It reminded me of-- how it used to be, how _we_ used to be. We learned a bunch of battle magic to fight--” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. There was plenty more after that. It’s scary, but--”

“Scarier to have a talk with El about your feelings than to fight alongside him?” Arielle said, raising an eyebrow.

He laughed. “I’d rather fight _with_ him than _fight_ with him, that’s for sure. Speaking of which... we did talk? Last night.”

“About your _feelings?”_ Arielle said, her eyes widening. “Oh. my. _gods._ And you said you made out! What _happened?”_ she added with a squeal not unlike Julia asking him about a date in their college days. 

“Well, I kinda… asked him to marry me? Us? Sort of? He turned me down,” he hastened to add as her eyes grew wider and fonder, like a heart-eyes emoji. “He thinks I couldn’t handle both of you. Maybe he’s right? It took me this long to make it work with just one person.”

“Oh, Q, don’t be so hard on yourself. Eliot is a tough nut to crack. Maybe after you’ve been dads together for awhile he will lighten the fuck up.”

Quentin stared at her, frozen in mid-chew. He knew that she didn’t understand, about the quest, and the key, and trying to explain couldn’t help. And she hadn’t been through this before, like he had, learning the lesson of not asking too much of Eliot. But her blunt assessment-- that all it would take to climb the Mount Everest that seemed forever between them was for Eliot to _lighten the fuck up,_ as if it were all just that simple-- fried out his brain for a moment. He shook it off. “Well, tonight? I’d like to get through one wedding to one amazing woman.” He sat back and tossed his napkin onto the plate. “Is there dessert?”

“We were supposed to have brought back wedding cake from the reception when we had this supper. Mint?” She offered him a bowl of tiny bright green leaves. “The trout was a little trouty, but quite good,” she added, her eyes twinkling. It was from _North by Northwest._ Ever since he and Eliot had told her this movie scene, they would quote from it when the night turned sexy.

“It’s gonna be a long night,” he said dryly, and his eyes were twinkling too. He took some of the leaves and began to chew on them. 

“And I don’t particularly like the book I’ve started,” Arielle said languidly, as she took some for herself.

Something about this line, the way she said it, always made his heart beat faster, and heat curl low in his abdomen. “C’mere,” Quentin replied, pushing his chair back. 

Arielle rose and made her way around the table, settling into his lap, her arms around his neck. “We got married.”

“Yes, we did.” He touched his lips gently to hers. The familiar weight of her, the feel of her body against his, the smell of her neck, felt so _real_ it made everything else that happened that day feel like a dream. 

“Are you still down?”

“To fuck?” he chuckled, and stretched out an arm.  “I think I can manage it.”

“No, dummy,” she laughed and slapped at his chest. “To be married. To me.”

“That is the only thing that went right today, and the only thing that mattered.”

“Oh, Q,” she sighed, and sank them into a forever kiss.

He slipped an arm under her knees and stood, cradling her. The muscles in his arms and shoulders protested mightily, but he was determined. He began to walk them to their Bridal Suite. 

“I thought this was for our threshold at home,” Arielle giggled.

“I need the practice,” Quentin said. “And besides, I think I might do this for every door from now on. Just carry you from room to room.”

“You’ll regret that in a few months.”

“Honestly, I’m regretting it now, my arms are killing me and this deck is bigger than I remember.”

“Just a few more steps and I’ll make you feel all better,” Arielle purred in his ear.

“You have since the day I met you,” Quentin said, and kicked the door closed behind them.

 

*

Eliot was starting to shiver, his muscles rippling and clenching through his body, as he walked with Rand up the River Road. “Sorry, I just--” he said, and let go of Rand’s hand to shake out his arms. 

“Are you-- alright?” Rand asked cautiously.

“Yeah, I just need a drink,” Eliot growled softly. “Or several. It-- smoothes it out.” He didn’t know how to explain the electric feeling of the magic zinging through his body, bouncing around his insides as if desperate to find a way out. Normal, simple spells left him feeling like he’d had a little bump of coke but magic like he’d done today-- and flying, no less-- would leave him seizing up and shaking without alcohol to loosen his muscles. He didn’t like anyone to see him like that, it didn’t seem to happen to other Magicians. Lipson had shrugged him off, quipping _with great power comes great muscle spasms._ Fogg had suggested the self-medication. “I miss my flask,” he added ruefully, and folded his arms across his chest, hugging his wet vest. He didn’t want to wear it anymore. It seemed, now that he understood how it had torn, like a death trap.

“Hmm,” Rand said. “I brought that wine from Town that you like, it’s in my bags.”

“Music to my ears.”

“Does it-- hurt? The magic? How are your-- hands?”

“You mean this?” Eliot released a hand from under one armpit and let the magic dance as red fire on his fingertips. It felt good to let a little out, like tipping open a release valve. He pulled out his other hand, tucking the vest under his arm, and let those fingers light as well, passing the sparks between them. 

Rand’s eyes widened, and he took a step away. 

“It’s _magic,_ not real fire,” the Magician assured him. “It’s an illusion. Like… a metaphor.” He curled his fingers into his palms as he pulled the magic back in, and then released them, splaying open his hands. “See? Good as new.”

“Hmm,” Rand said again. “Good.”

Eliot frowned. He had thought that today’s display of his abilities might have gotten him some positive attention, and he was a little hurt that Rand seemed distant. He felt prickly and shook out his arms again. _Maybe he’s just giving me space because he can tell I feel like shit._ They had reached the Mosaic yard and he’d have wine soon, that would grease the wheels. His pipe was on his bedside table, but mixing wine with herbs muddled up his magic, and he still had some major warding to pull off down at New House.

They crossed the yard, stepping over the neglected puzzle, and went inside the house. Eliot stopped off at the bathroom, and handed a towel to Rand as he went past to fetch the wine from his bags in the back bedroom. He took another for himself and surveyed the damage in the mirror.

Not for the first time he regretted not installing a shower, as he didn’t have time for a bath. He filled the basin and washed off the raccoon eyes of dripping eyeliner. He grabbed a pencil out of the jar on the stand and made short work of reapplying. He dried his hair and reached for a bottle from the little table to style it again. It was a sort of gel, made from moss from a certain river-- or something, he couldn’t remember the sales pitch-- and it mostly tamed his curls, although applying it on towel-dried hair that already had gel and rainwater in it was far from ideal. And his hands were starting to shake. He missed Margo. She would spell his hair when he couldn’t get it to work. And she would have danced all night in his arms. 

Rand appeared in the doorway, his hair fluffy from the towel which now draped over his shoulders, holding out a tankard of wine. 

“Bless you, Father,” Eliot tried to purr, though it came out more like a gasp. He took the wine in both hands and downed it without ever taking it from his lips. “Oh, yes, that’s infinitely better,” he sighed as the warmth began to spread through his chest. He held the mug out to Rand. “Please sir, may I ‘ave some more?” 

“You’ve been reading my _Book of Umber_?” Rand said with amazement, as he turned back to the kitchen to refill the mug. “The parable of the orphan boy?”

“That’s not _Book of Umber,_ that’s Charles Dickens. An author from Earth,” Eliot added to the priest’s confused look. “Thanks,” he said, taking the tankard, and went back to his room to change, Rand following behind. He downed half the drink before setting it on his bedside table, and began to unbutton his shirt as he kicked off his shoes. He couldn’t stop thinking of Umber, sitting in his posh Canadian house, surrounded by books. “Wait-- _oh fuck,”_ he laughed. “I think your god might be a plagiarist! Hit me with more-- your favorites.”

 _“I think, therefore I am,”_ Rand offered as he sat on the bed, scratching his beard.

“Descartes, a philosopher.”

“You must be joking,” the priest said, but Eliot shook his head and motioned for him to continue. _“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”_

“Plato? I think? Or Socrates? More philosophers, much older, like thousands of years ago,” Eliot said as he reached into the wardrobe for a hanger for his wet clothes. He wasn’t above throwing laundry in a pile on the floor, but he didn’t want Rand to know that. “Anyway, Plato wrote a bunch of Socrates fanfic so I can never remember who said what.”

_“Hate has caused a lot of problems in the world, but has not solved one yet.”_

Eliot laughed. “Facebook. No, I’m kidding-- Maya Angelou, a poet. Wait-- Something that fucker said today… Maybe it was a quote? _If you wrong us, shall we not revenge_ ring any bells?”

“Yes, that’s from a parable about oppression of the outsider.”

“Thank Christ,” Eliot sighed. “I was afraid it meant there were more where he came from.”

“Hmm. That kind of talk is what the parable is about,” Rand pointed out. 

“Considering I _am_ one of them-- outsider Magicians-- and I was picturing a specific cabal of evil ones, I think I’m politically correct.”

“I suppose. Where _did_ he-- come from?” 

“We don’t know. And the more important question might be _when.”_

“Time travel?” Rand’s eyes widened.

Eliot shrugged, and reached for his wine, which he downed in a gulp. “Or dimension travel, the jury is still out.”

“Hmm,” Rand said, and the worried tone was back. “Do you want another cup?”

“I was hoping,” Eliot purred with a grin as he took a step closer and ran his hand up his bare stomach, “I wasn’t the only one who was thirsty.” He reached for Rand’s hand but the man flinched and pulled back. “Rand?” The priest wouldn’t meet his eyes. Eliot suddenly realized what he had taken as gentlemanly, respectful distance was something else, maybe shock. “Are you-- alright?” he asked, as he sat down beside him. 

“Oh yes, I’m quite well,” Rand said, but his voice trembled slightly. “We were all far enough back to stay out of it. I just--” He took a breath. “It was quite a sight. You were-- flying, and there was the red fire, and Quentin throwing shining silver light and-- it was…” He took another deep breath, and sighed. “Spectacular.”

Eliot frowned. “What was the word you wanted to use?” 

Rand scratched his beard. “Terrifying.”

“Are you… _afraid_ of me?” 

“Right now, a little, yeah,” Rand admitted, looking down at his lap where his hands began twisting the towel he still carried. “I mean, not of _you--_ but your hands… your hands are my favorite part-- and... there was the fire, and all the-- battle spells? I guess? It was like-- seeing your beloved cat rip apart a gazelle and realizing it was a lion all along.”

Eliot’s heart began to pound. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had rejected him when he showed a hidden side to himself-- any healing he’d had from Mike’s apparent acceptance of his true background was dashed away when he was revealed to be a con artist and a monster-- but _this_ would be a first, being rejected over _magic,_ the foundational part of his grand persona. But then, Rand was his first non-Magician boyfriend since he’d come out as one. “Okay... I get that,” he said cautiously, rolling his shoulders as he shifted back on the bed to give his friend some space. “You know I’d never hurt _you,_ right?”

“Yeah, I know,” Rand said, but he didn’t sound entirely convinced. 

“Look,” Eliot said kindly, trying to cover the tremor in his voice, “battle magic, it takes a lot of effort. And concentration. The things I can do, the things that can-- cause damage, I can’t do them by accident, or by getting carried away.” He didn’t think this was the time to mention that his telekinesis had once killed a boy without a thought, especially since all his training kept it in check now.

“Okay…”

“Even this,” Eliot added, sparking up a tiny bit of red fire, enough to show but not to scare. “I have to _will_ it to do this. And anyway, this can’t hurt you, more than a little shock. Do you-- want to touch it? Which is not the first time I’ve asked that, sitting on a bed in my underwear,” he added with a smirk.

Rand snorted a laugh, but he brought his eyes up to Eliot’s. They were anxious, but also a little intrigued. Eliot reached his hand out to him, dancing the sparks on his fingers. Rand slowly brought his hand to the red glow and flinched as he felt the electricity of it, but then played his fingertips along Eliot’s more eagerly, his eyes growing wide with wonder.

“See? Harmless. It’s hard to explain but it sort of-- primes the pump? Gets the magic flowing so more can come out. And when I really get it going it can be an intimidation, I’d much rather scare someone off.” Eliot pulled the magic back in but didn’t take the hand that was lightly resting on his. 

“And _did_ you scare him off?” 

“We think so. _Mama_ thinks so,” he added, knowing the weight this would carry. “For now. And anyway, Quentin is a stone-cold genius and his spell-- the one we will do in the future-- is a work of art. It protected all of us. Not to mention Arielle and her shovel. I might have to pull some razzle-dazzle out again if that fucker comes back, but I doubt we’d have to actually _fight_ him. Quentin protected us. Or, he will. He is. Whatever.” 

Rand’s fingertips were still resting lightly on his, but there was still caution in his face.

“But that’s not really what’s bothering you, is it? It’s that you saw my lion.” Eliot said softly. He took a long breath and dropped his hand into his lap. He recognized the look in Rand’s eyes. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m not going to touch you, or even stand too close, until you’re ready, _if_ you’re ready. You come to me when the lion feels like a cat again, okay?” he added, hoping it wasn’t too late to save this. “You lead, I follow.”

Rand sighed and smiled. “Thank you,” he said, reaching for Eliot’s hand. “I’d like to-- keep holding your hand, if that’s okay.”

Rand’s smile was a light that dispersed Eliot’s dark thoughts, fears that he had found a whole new way to chase a man off. That combined with the wine, and he was suddenly feeling relaxed and happy as he was this morning, before everything, before the fear had gripped his heart that he’d lose everyone that mattered most to him. It made him feel loose and giddy, and for the first time he understood Quentin’s sudden kisses, as it took considerable effort not to plant one on Rand. “I would be honored,” Eliot said grandly, bowing his head, his free hand on his heart. “Except that I currently need it to finish getting dressed.” They shared a laugh and once again, it took some effort not to pet Rand as he stood.

They had left the bedroom door open, and now Cleve’s voice called through the house. _“Coo-ee,_ y’all decent? Thought we could all walk down t’New House together if’n y’all want.”

“Be right there!” Eliot called out. “Rand, could you see to them? I’ll be dressed in a jiffy.”

“As you wish,” Rand said with a smile.

“Oh, don’t _you_ start, now that we have company,” Eliot laughed, and reached for a new outfit.

 

When he came out into the yard he was greeted by a small army of volunteers-- Gana and Gish, MJ and Gee, Jenna and Cleve, Mama and Wren, who now wore his spare vest, the one Jenna had made to work out the pattern before the fancy fabric arrived-- and he felt his heart swell yet one more size, powering up his giddiness. 

“I have a cunning plan,” Eliot said grandly, tucking the bottle of wine he was carrying into the crook of his arm and clapping his hands twice. “I’m going to teach you all a song on the way, and we’ll teach it to everyone else as they arrive, and sing it when the bride and groom enter. As I was explaining to Rand earlier, it is from a band called Queen.”

 

*

“Holy shit,” Quentin panted, as Arielle fell beside him on the bed. “Holy shit...”

“Holy shit good?” Arielle giggled.

“I didn’t think? It would really be different. Now that we’re married? But that was-- holy shit, that was _amazing.”_ He had to consciously work on uncurling his toes. 

“Holy shit, yes it was,” Arielle agreed. “It was like-- I never thought I was holding back, but--”

“I know, right? It’s like, now that it’s official--”

“And you know you’re one hundred percent not going to chase the person off--”

“Right? Yes, exactly that.” He reached for her hand, and held it tight. “I mean, you were never going to--”

“Chase you off? Yeah, you neither. But still--”

“There was still that little part? And now it’s gone, and it’s like--”

“Real. Really, _really_ real.” Arielle turned to curl up against him, her head on his chest.

He pulled her tight. “God, I love you.”

“I love you, too, Boo.”

“How much longer do we have before the party?”

“Did you want to go again? Because once-that-never-really -stops-before-twice might be my limit unless you want to wear me out to uselessness and skip the party.”

“No, I want to-- I don’t want to wait to do First Gifts. Can we just do it now?” Quentin said eagerly.

“Aw, Q, everyone will want to see it. It’s tradition.”

“I don’t _want_ everyone to see it. I want it to be just us, here, in bed, like this.”

“Okay, fine, but you have to get up, because my legs are all jellified.”

His were too, and he hated with his whole heart having to let go of her, but he was even more excited about this Fillorian tradition. “Is yours in your bag?” Quentin said, as he got out of the bed.

“Yes, in that side pocket. No, the one on the end, I mean.”

Quentin fished a small box out of the pocket, and went to his bag and bent over it. Somehow the box had worked its way down to the bottom.

Arielle gave a wolf whistle. “Hurry up, I’m changing my mind about fucking you again, sweet cheeks.”

He grinned and wiggled his butt at her, which sent her laughing onto her back. He found the small box in the bottom of his bag and flopped onto the bed on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, and handed her hers. “Are there like, special words?” he asked.

“Not really. It’s like the writing-your-own-vows thing, you just say what you feel. Do you want me to go first?”

“Yes, please,” Quentin said, tucking his hair behind his ear as she leaned in to kiss him and sat up, cross-legged. 

“Okay. Husband, I want to bring so many good things into your life, like our baby, who’s with us right now and just heard Daddy doing _unspeakable_ things to his mother--”

“Oh god,” he laughed, ducking his head down.

“Sorry,” Arielle laughed. “Okay, for real. I will do everything I can to give you joy, and comfort, and babies, and let’s face it, baked goods on the reg,” she grinned, “but for my First Gift, I give you myself, and this ring.” She opened the box and took out a slim gold band. She motioned for his hand and slipped it on his finger. “And when you look at it, it will remind you of this day, and how much I love you. And now, we kiss.” She leaned in to kiss him, soft and sweet. As she pulled back, she noticed the tears in his eyes. “Oh good, I made you cry,” she chuckled. “Then I did it right. Not supposed to leave a dry eye in the house.”

“Oh, sure, no pressure,” Quentin laughed as he wiped at his eyes. “Fuck, I just want to say _what she said._  I’m so glad we’re not up in front of everyone right now.”

“Especially naked.”

“Yes, especially that. Okay, whew.” He took a deep breath as he stared at the ring on his finger. “Ari, that wasn’t really your first gift. Because you’ve been giving me gifts since I met you. Starting with peaches and plums? I guess, although that’s not what I mean. You were a friend when I needed one, when I was stressed out and unsure of everything, you just came in with your bright smile and made everything I was worried about feel… trivial. Not because it wasn’t important? But because you just see things so directly, you cut through all the bullshit, and just face it all, head-on. And I was... not that? I was all tangled up in it. So that was your first gift. And that was before we even started courting? Because then when we were falling in love, you were just like-- _open._ Like I’d never seen anyone be before, like no one had ever been with me. Your dance had two steps-- give love, and be all happy about it, and then repeat. The next day and the next day and the next. And that was it. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. And I’d never-- It had never been like that for me. But you made it look so easy-- you made it so easy-- I just followed you and learned the steps. So that was your second gift? Learning to really love freely. By the way, I think I’m winning, and I’m not even close to done.” 

Tears were running down Arielle’s cheeks, and she took his hand and gripped it tightly. “I should have gone second,” she croaked. “I would totally have taken you down.”

“Rule number one, don’t ever let me go last in an emotional speech contest,” Quentin chuckled wryly, wiping a tear from his own eye. “I have a lot of practice. Okay, so, where was I? Right, your third gift is right there in your name, Coldwater-Waugh. You get it, about Eliot. That I need space for him, that he takes up space in my life, in my heart. And you not only gave him that space, gave _me_ that space, you made it _bigger,_ somehow. I love that man in ways I can’t begin to explain, but I don’t _have_ to, because you love him, too. _You get it._ And I swear, you might be the first person who did. The first person that didn’t make me feel-- like I shouldn’t love him, or that I should feel bad about it. Margo got it, sort of, but even she didn’t exactly-- make _room_ for us, not like you. You encouraged us to be-- just whatever the fuck we are, and _you made that thing better._ We are closer now than we’ve ever been, because you gave us that, and because we both love you, so, so much-- hi, okay--”

In a twist from their usual maneuvers in moments such as this, it was Arielle who cut him off with a kiss.

“Still not done,” Quentin murmured against her mouth. 

“Right, sorry,” she said, blushing. “I just-- get that now, more than I did.”

“Yeah, it happens,” Quentin shrugged with a grin. “But I haven’t even gotten to your fourth gift, which is our baby, and the fifth, which is Eliot being his dad too, although I guess that’s part of the third one? But anyway, that means this ring you just put on my finger is your _sixth_ gift, at least, not counting baked goods and sundry fruit. And this--” he pulled out the small box he had tucked by his side, and opened it, revealing a narrow gold band with a tiny, shining blue crystal, “is my I.O.U., because I’m going to spend my life trying to pay you back.” He took it out, and turned her hand in his and slid the ring onto her finger.

“Gods _damn_ it, Q,” Arielle whispered through her tears as she stared at the ring. “I mean-- gods _damn_ it.”

“What?” he said, rubbing a thumb across her cheek. “Is it not the right one?” He couldn’t leave the village to pick out her ring, but when Mama had gone to Town with Arielle to buy his, she’d sent a rabbit saying the bride had been gushing over a particular one, and when she had purchasing approval and a moment alone, she’d swung back by the jeweler’s to buy it for him and snuck it home.

“Yes, it’s the right one, and Mama is a sly dog,” she said, and took his hand and kissed it. “But godsdamn, your speech. The stammering is a hustle, isn’t it? Make me think you can’t get your words out and then when I’m least expecting it, _pow,_  right in the feels.”

“Good pow?”

 _"Very_ good pow. Oh, Q, I love you so much,” Arielle breathed in a rush as she pushed his shoulder back so she could fall on top of him in a forever kiss.

 

*

The New House barn was filled with a soft glow. _Eliot must have wrangled every firefly within five miles,_ Mama thought wryly. The volunteers had created an open dance floor area, surrounded by hay bales as stools, and stacked crates covered with tablecloths for small tables with little candles on them Mama had brought from the tavern. At one end of the dance floor were two of the chairs from Nalie and Hund’s dining room, bedecked in ribbons, thrones for the bride and groom, with a small table on either side. On the other end of the barn were tables of refreshments and gifts, one stacked high with Gabby’s dessert, covered with a cloth. 

Mama found a stool over by the punch bowl. She was tired. Long days like this one happened rarely, and she was feeling her age. Not that early-fifties- none-of-your-business was _old,_ really, but she’d begun to notice that her hips sort of forgot how to walk if she sat too long, and her feet ached when she didn’t. 

And honestly, a day like today was more than a person should have to put up with, mishaps and weddings and battles, and now a party, and all in a half a dozen hours. And threats to all of her kids-- she still didn’t know what the hell was going on with Arielle-- ten minutes with a creep that would last a lifetime, and her sweet boys, so dumb and so powerless in their personal lives they could hardly make the simplest move without fights and angst and advice from her, but so determined and powerful and _united,_ doing… what they knew how to do. What they trained to do. Magic wasn’t even the name for it, _magic_ was for moving trees and floating flowers and small repairs and other acts of delight. This was proof that there was a world far out of her reach, where epic battles were fought and time itself was folded like a tablecloth, and her boys were _at home_ in it. Were _better_ in it, were _stronger_ in it. 

She wondered about the quest. The puzzle was stupid. There was absolutely no such thing as a mosaic of “the beauty of all life”, she was fairly certain. But it couldn’t be a trick on them, as Eliot had suggested once, if The Stranger wanted it for himself. It was definitely a real quest. And in its own way, it gave them a unique challenge, the only one they _weren’t_ trained for. The hard part. The part they were both so terrible at. Life. _The beauty of all life._

“You’ve been quiet this evening,” Rand noted as he approached the punch bowl and refilled his cup.

“Long day.”

“Indeed. But you are the hero of the hour, I should think you’d be celebrating as well.”

Mama snorted a huff. “Wasn’t as much fun as it sounds. More like a really bad date, going to my kids’ wedding with a creep who wouldn’t let me enjoy it.”

“Crown! Crown! Crown!” the crowd chanted. Somehow over the course of the hour and a half they had waited for the wedding couple, as they had gotten more and more drunk and more and more restless, the chanting had developed as a running joke, and anything could set them off. Eliot, standing on a stool encircled by the townsfolk, lowered his head and someone put a paper crown on it.

“Oof,” Rand said, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I can stay trapped in a barn with so many rowdy people.”

“Triumph is a hell of a drug, Father,” Mama said. “And they’ve all had a bit ol’ hit of it. They’ll calm down when Q and Ari get here and we get the reception going. They sent a rabbit,” she added to his worried look. “They’re fine.”

“Eliot said you declared the danger over? For tonight at least?”

“Yeah, he’s gone,” Mama sighed. “Speaking of tall, dark, and crazy, he seems like he’s back to his old self,” she added with a nod to Eliot, who was engaged in an animated debate with the villagers over the name of the party. 

“He… compartmentalizes.”

“Hmm. And you?”

“I’m learning.”

“Don’t learn too good. Not sure it’s entirely good for your head.” 

“Ever wonder what he looked like in the real one?” Rand asked.

Mama looked at him curiously. She could see it in his eyes, the same realization she’d had about a level of life above their heads. “You really wanna have this conversation?”

“I take it you don’t.”

“Not really. Just let him be Eliot. He’s happier this way.”

“Song! Song! Song!” the villagers were chanting. 

“No! We’re not rehearsing it again, you drunken heathens!” Eliot laughed, adjusting the crown on his head that slipped every time he teetered drunkenly on the stool. “Trust me, you’ll all be sick of it by the end of the night. Oh, and-- it will probably stick in your head for a couple of weeks--”

The crowd gave a cheer at this, smattered with boos.

“Why didn’t Eliot use that spell for the song, instead of making everyone learn it?” Mama asked.

Rand chuckled. “Quentin won’t teach it to him. He said it was his way of _controlling the remote,_ which I didn’t exactly follow but I gathered he thinks Eliot would use it too much if he knew it.”

“So…” Eliot was saying, “when you get up in the night to use the outhouse a week from now and you’re humming it to yourself--”

 _“Weeee--”_ Cleve and Gish began to sing, arms around each other’s necks, tankards raised.

“No! Stop! Stooop!” Eliot cried out drunkenly, and stomped his foot, which tipped the stool. Hands reached out for him, which he took, but he quickly hovered to keep from falling and turned the stool right again with his mind and landed on it, all in one graceful move. “I was going to say,” he continued, lifting his chin and tossing his curls as if the stool itself had rudely interrupted him, “that it’s for a good cause.”

“Cause we _won!”_ Cleve called out.

“Cause we _won!”_ Eliot cheered and raised his mug, and everyone followed suit, cheering and laughing.

“Won! Won! Won!” the group chanted.

 

*

The New House barn was lit from the inside, but it was stone silent, no sign of a party. Quentin’s heart began to race. He moved quickly for the door handle but when he touched it, the whole building shimmered. _Warded,_ he thought. _So they’re fine, they’re probably fine._ And that’s when he noticed the note attached to the door, written in a wide, loopy version of Eliot’s handwriting. _So he_ is _fine, and already drunk,_ Quentin chuckled to himself. The yard was dark, so he leaned forward to peer at it.

_The doors are locked_

_Check the clock_

_You two are late_

_Though we saved the date!_

_If you would like to join the party_

_Do an impression of our friend Marty._

_Then put this note inside your pocket_

_And when you’re in, remember to lock it!_

 

_Ride or die_

_E_

“Does it say what to do?” Arielle asked.

“I think I need to--” Quentin began. He put the note in his pocket and drew himself up with his hands as claws and gave a quiet roar. Nothing happened.

“Maybe we both need to do it?” Arielle suggested.

Quentin shrugged and they both giggled, then hopped in unison to the door and roared at it. The whole barn shimmered with wards, in which a door-shaped hole appeared, matching the door behind it. Now they could hear the sounds of the party inside, which quickly hushed. Apparently the partygoers could tell the door was about to open, and it felt like the barn itself was holding its breath. “After you,” he motioned to the door.

“Not going to carry me?” Arielle teased.

“Don’t push your luck.”

“That didn’t last long,” she said, as she opened the door.

“You wore me out,” Quentin laughed, following behind. 

 

*

The crowd was quiet, and Mama stood to see over them and watch Quentin and Arielle step into the barn, holding hands and grinning like fools. _Sweet kids,_ she thought, and her mind cast back to her own wedding. _I wish you were here to see this_ . There was a fraction of a second of awkward silence, and then Eliot, still standing on his stool, motioned impatiently at the door. Quentin turned to it and closed the wards with a roar. He turned back with a playful glare to Eliot that said _why did you make me do that?_  

“It rhymed with party, and I _thought_ we were short on time,” Eliot said imperiously, and then rolled his shoulders and tossed his curls and began to sing.

_I've paid my dues_

_Time after time_

_I've done my sentence_

_But committed no crime_

He stepped down off the stool and made his way to the couple, taking them by their hands.

_And bad mistakes_

_I've made a few_

_I've had my share of sand kicked in my face_

_But I've come through_

And then all their friends joined him, loudly, in a drunken chorus, clearly excited that it was finally their turn. 

_Weeeee are the champions, my friends_

_And weeeee'll keep on fighting 'til the end_

_Weee are the champions_

_Weee are the champions_

_Nooo time for losers_

_'Cause weee are the champions of the world!_

The crowd had encircled the couple as they sang, and as Eliot led them all, they moved them to their thrones. As they sat and were adorned with their own paper crowns, someone handed them goblets of drink-- Mama hoped they had enough sense to give Arielle water-- and Eliot continued singing.

_I've taken my bows_

_And my curtain calls_

_You brought me fame and fortune and everything that goes with it_

_I thank you all_

_But it's been no bed of roses_

_No pleasure cruise_

_I consider it a challenge before the whole human race_

_And I ain't gonna lose_

Once again the crowd, now encircling the wedding couple, loudly and drunkenly, chimed in on the chorus.

_We are the champions, my friends_

_And we'll keep on fighting 'til the end_

_We are the champions_

_We are the champions_

_No time for losers_

_'Cause we are the champions of the world!_

Eliot motioned for the couple to join them in song. Quentin seemed to know the words, which made sense as this was not a Fillorian song, and by now Arielle had caught on enough to join in. They raised their goblets as swayed them as the crowd was doing with their mugs and sang heartily.

_We are the champions, my friends_

_And we'll keep on fighting 'til the end_

_We are the champions_

_We are the champions_

_No time for losers_

_'Cause we are the champions_

_Of the woooooorld!_

Everyone cheered, and those closest to the couple hugged and kissed them. 

Someone had brought the stool over, and Eliot stood on top of it again. “Quentin and Arielle, allow me to welcome you-- very, _very_ late--” he added with a pointed glare, “to your wedding reception and our first annual Kickass Celebration party!” More cheers from the crowd. “Which may be renamed in the future, I’m not in love with it.” This brought groans. “But tonight we are celebrating my two best friends in the whole world getting married, and everyone in this village banding together to protect our own, and I love you all and honestly we are all _super_ drunk, so catch up, chickens!” He raised his mug to Quentin and Arielle, who raised their goblets in return, and everyone cheered and drank.

“First Gifts! First Gifts! First Gifts!” chanted the crowd.

“We already did it!” Arielle said, holding up her hand. This brought a mixed response, some whining that they were deprived of the ritual, others ooh-ing over the pretty little ring. She nudged Quentin, who held up his for inspection as well.

“What did you _say?”_ someone called out.

“None of your business,” Arielle laughed. “No, really, I just threw it at him and was like, ‘Here, dummy,’ and he threw mine at me and didn’t say anything. That about covers it, right?” she added, turning to her new husband.

Quentin nodded solemnly. “Absolutely. No tears at all, it was really boring.”

This brought boos from the crowd, but then someone shouted, “Not-cake!” and the crowd began to chant. “Not-Cake! Not-Cake! Not-Cake!”

“Eliot, could you--” Gabby motioned to the far end of the barn.

“On it!” Eliot cried out drunkenly, and disappeared into the crowd.

She turned back to the bride and groom and grinned. “I wouldn’t tell them what it was, just that it wasn’t cake,” she explained, leaning in to be heard over the chants. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t make one in time.”

“So what did you come up with, Apprentice Extraordinaire?” Arielle laughed.

“Not-Cake! Not-Cake! Not-Cake!” the villagers continued to chant, stopping only to laugh at their own silliness. 

“You’ll see in a minute! He’s warming them up before he brings them over,” Gabby said. “They were getting cold waiting for you.” 

“They?” the bride asked.

“Coming through!” Eliot called out, and the crowd parted for the table he floated in front of him, loaded with a pyramid of tarts, each about four inches wide, on top of which was balanced the wooden topper MJ had carved of the Coldwater-Waughs.

“Tarts for Two!” Gabby declared. She took the one off the top, balancing the topper as she moved, and handed it to Arielle, turning back to grab them two forks. 

“In honor of your pairing, a tart for two for sharing,” Wren recited with a bow, and added smugly, “I wrote that.”

“Oh, Gabby, this is perfect!” Arielle exclaimed.

“Thank you, Miss Ari,” Gabby said, blushing. “Go ahead and do your thing and then I’ll serve the rest.”

“Right,” Arielle said, and addressed their friends. “So where Q and El are from, the couple feeds each other the first bite because-- oh, I just realized I don’t know what it means.”

Quentin shrugged, and caught his paper crown before it slid off. “I have no idea. Usually it’s a chance for them to prank each other and smash it all over each other’s faces.”

“Well, let’s not do that,” Arielle frowned. “The filling is hot. Eliot’s zaps are no joke.”

“Agreed,” Quentin said. “Here, let me help you hold it.”

He took off the topper and set it on the table, and then they held the little pie pan together and each forked out a bite, which they fed to each other. Quentin still ended up with filling smeared on the side of his mouth, and Arielle kissed it off. Everyone cheered.

“Alright, everybody, pair up and take one,” Gabby said. “And if your group has an odd number, take extra and _figure it out,_ as Miss Ari says.”

Mama waited behind the crowd as they paired up, took a tart and some forks, and made their way to the makeshift tables-- JP and his wife Helyn, Gana and Gish, Jenna and Cleve, and Nalie and Hund, who were able to come down to the barn when Gee went to stay with baby Lin. MJ carried a tart for Tassie and Wicklet. But Eliot was hanging back as well, which was odd, as Rand was here. Something was going on with those two, but she didn’t have a handle on it. Didn’t seem to be about Quentin marrying, as Eliot was lit not just with the drink but with a giddiness that seemed supportive of his friends, though it might just be a show. Never knew with Eliot.

Wren trotted up, MJ trailing behind. “Mama,” the dog began with a quick bow. “Would you like to sit with us? We can’t share, because we are _just friends,_ and anyway peach tarts don’t sit right with me.” 

“I took the liberty of whipping up a stew, in case people needed to balance out the drink later,” Mama said. “Should be close enough to ready by now. Interested? I can dip you up a bowl.”

“That would be great,” Wren agreed. 

She made her way over to a pot that was suspended over a small fire Eliot had made-- the barn was fire-proofed, but just like at the tavern, he could make a fire that would work despite his spell-- and dished up a bowl. “Are you gonna get a tart, hon, or do you want some of this?” she said to MJ.

The girl shrugged. “Stew looks good,” she said. 

“Comin’ right up!” Mama said brightly, and handed her Wren’s bowl and went to make up another. “Spoons are at the end of the table over there.”

 _“MJ,”_ Wren whined, “now who will share with Mama?”

“Mama!” Eliot cried out as he sauntered over to them and hugged her tightly. In her ear, he whispered, suddenly sounding much less drunk, “Could you come sit with me and Rand? We need a chaperone.”

“You all right?” she whispered back.

“Just scared him with the show today. I need a buffer.”

Mama patted him on the back and let go to turn to their young friends. “I tell you what, Wren, why don’t we make a _just friends_ table and we can all sit together? Take His Majesty the King of the Party here and push a couple of tables together. I’ll get us tarts.”

She left them to work this out and made her way to the tart table, which was still in front of Quentin and Arielle, who had already finished theirs.

“Well, if it isn’t the couple of the hour!” Mama gushed as she approached them.

“Aw, Mama, you’re the hero,” Quentin said as he stood to hug her. “You held him off so we could finish getting married, I can’t even believe it.”

“Neither could he,” Mama snorted a laugh. “Kept trying to grill me on my magic. But like I told him, I don’t have any magic but love for my kids.”

“Oh, Mama,” Arielle said, tears in her eyes, standing to take her turn for a hug. “I don’t really remember my mother,” she added in a whisper into her ear, “so I’m sure glad I’ve got you.”

“Always, baby love,” Mama reassured her, and hugged her tighter. “After everything your aunt did for me, I’m so happy I can fill in for her.”

“You’re not just filling in, you’re _family,”_ Arielle said. “Isn’t she, Husband?”

“She’s been our Mama since we got here,” Quentin agreed. “We wouldn’t have made it to today without her.”

“Well, let’s not get carried away,” Mama laughed. “You boys have had a tough row to hoe, but if today proved anything, it’s that you’re perfectly capable of handling trouble yourself.”

“Oh, that,” Quentin said, with an Eliot-wave of his hand. “Well. We can handle big trouble, I guess, but--”

“But living day-to-day provides its own challenges, I know,” Mama said, and she thought of the quest again. “But look how far you’ve come! Now you’re an old married couple,” she teased, “plus one, plus this little one that’s coming, you’ve made a life and a family, and I just couldn’t be prouder.”

“Where _is_ our Plus One?” Quentin asked. 

“Over there. No offense to our dear Gabby, but not everyone divides up into perfect pairs for romantic tart-eating. We’re making a Friends Table. And since you’re done with yours, why don’t you join us? No sense in you being alone at your own party. Unless,” she added with a wink, “you’re not done canoodling.”

“Oh, we canoodled plenty before we got here,” Arielle laughed, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. “I mean, I for one canoodled like six times, at least. Q?” 

Quentin blushed a fiery red and tucked his hair behind his ear. “I guess you’re here for the rest of these, then?” he said, pointedly not answering the question and instead motioning at the tarts still left on the table. “Can we carry them over for you?”

“Don’t sweat it,” Mama said. “I’m gonna go find Rand and we’ll bring them over. Just need you to let our Master of Ceremonies over there know that we need to make two more seats for ya.”

“Wife?” Quentin said, holding out his hand to Arielle. “Shall we?”

“By all means, Husband,” Arielle giggled, and they made their way over to the Friends Table as Mama scanned the room for Rand. 

He was hanging back on the other side of the dance floor, and she wondered if he was deliberately putting distance between him and Eliot. She made her way past the couples, most of whom were trying the Earth tradition of feeding each other, Jenna and Cleve laughing uncontrollably as they tried to feed each other with intertwined arms, Gish pulling the fork back every time Gana tried to eat from it, and Nalie carefully forking up the perfect amount to neatly feed to Hund.

“So, we’re rebelling against Tarts for Two and making a group Friendship Table over there,” Mama said to the priest, and nodded to the corner of the dancefloor where Eliot and MJ were pushing barrels together for tables and Wren was nudging hay bales into place as seats. “Wanna join?”

“I’d be delighted,” Rand said, but as he offered her his arm she noticed he had tensed up ever so slightly. 

Mama slipped her arm into his and they began to make their way to the table of tarts. “So I think I figured out what you’re compartmentalizing,” she said kindly. “I hear you got a bit spooked, seein’em in action today.” 

Rand sighed as he always did when she saw through him. “Eliot was--”

“Yes, I know. I told you, he’s no pussycat.”

“Shields and battlements, I remember. I thought that would be more… metaphorical.”

“I hoped it would be,” Mama conceded. “But life has a way of making us dig down deep sometimes. _Make the subtext, text,_ as Q would say.” She handed him two tarts, then took the last two and a handful of forks. 

Rand nodded. _“The dream made real,_ my professor at Seminary used to call it.”

“And isn’t that magic, really?” Mama said. “May not always be pretty, but it sure is beautiful.” 

Rand considered this. “The same could be said of this whole day, the wedding, I mean. I had this in my sermon. It’s rather magical that something as ephemeral as _emotion,_ can be made into something _real,_ a life together. And not always pretty, as you say, but always unique and beautiful.”

“Friendships, too,” Mama added with a meaningful lo4k. “I’m glad you’re in my life, hon.” 

Rand nodded, but he glanced over at Eliot. 

“He’s going to have to zap these again if we keep standing here yappin’,” she said, and began to steer them to their friends. 

Three barrels had been pushed together in a cloverleaf shape, with two seats open on the dancefloor side. Eliot was directly across, with Wren on one side-- his fork gadget changed to a spoon-- and Quentin on the other. Rand sat next to MJ and Mama took the remaining seat next to Arielle. Rand gave Eliot a tentative but warm smile and a nod of his head, to which Eliot responded with a coy grin and a gesture like a cat washing its ear. Rand laughed softly. 

 _Whatever that was, I guess they’re working through it,_ Mama thought. “Anyone want any of these?” she said, as she set down the tarts. “Q? Ari? Y’all want another one?”

“Oh, I’m still full from supper,” Quentin said. “Thank you so much, Mama, that fish was great.”

“Thank Jenna, she cooked it,” Mama shrugged. “El, honey, have you eaten _anything_ today?”

“Mama, you know I don’t dilute my drinks with food,” Eliot sniffed, and tossed his curls. 

“Ha, ha. I’d better see you put something in your mouth tonight.”

“Voyeur much?” Eliot smirked with a quick glance at Rand.

“Pass out much?” Mama retorted.

“Fine, whatever.” He reached for a tart and a fork, took a bite and shrugged at her, _Satisfied?_

“MJ, I hear you have an apprenticeship,” Rand said. “When does it start?”

“Two weeks,” MJ said.

“But we’re leaving in ten days,” Wren interjected. “Seren’s going to let us come early and get settled. We have to share a room, and a _bed,_ even though we are _just friends,”_ he added, looking around to make sure everyone understood. 

“Oh, Bean, stop being weird about that,” Eliot said, with a wave of his hand. “Q and I slept in one bed for a whole year just as friends. And when I was a kid, our dog slept in my bed with me. Stop making it weird. MJ doesn’t seem to think it’s weird.”

MJ shrugged. “Not like he takes up a lot of room.”

 _“Your_ dog was not, like, a _person,”_ Wren said. “Which isn’t racist,” he quickly added to the group, “dogs don’t talk or anything where they’re from, they’re like, _pets._ I’m not MJ’s pet. I think I might sleep on the floor.”

“Well, don’t go making yourself uncomfortable just because you’re trying to prove something,” Mama said. “No one will care or even notice. If the two of you are good with it, do whatever you want.” 

“So, how are you going to get your business started, Wren?” Arielle asked. “Do you have a plan?”

“Well…” Wren waved a paw.

“Don’t let him fool you, Miss Ari, he has a wagonful of plans,” MJ said. “Starting with making a list of everyone in Town and how fancy they are.” She smirked at Wren, who rolled his eyes.

“You make it sound sleazy,” Wren said. “I just need to know who’s got the money and clout to throw decent parties. I won’t even start with them, I just need to track them, and what kind of parties they throw and how they’re received. That’s all background while I find someone more… low-level, shall we say. Someone who needs a hand making a special night. Then word will get around and I’ll work my way up, making a name for myself, and poaching the best of the staff from the fancy places. That’s the only way to get in with the moneyed people. They already have a staff, so I have to make me and my team the ones you hire to make it _special._ Because by then I’ll know all about their parties, and why they aren’t working as well as they should, so I can make them see I’m the one to improve their social standing.”

“Step four, profit,” Quentin chuckled.

“Don’t knock it, it’s a solid plan,” Eliot said defensively.

“Because it’s yours?” Quentin teased.

“No, he came up with it himself. Although it shares many similarities to how I got Margo and I into the Encanto Occulto the first time.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever told me that story,” Quentin said.

“It was a more… seductive plan, let’s leave it at that,” Eliot grinned slyly. “Oh, MJ, speaking of Seren, the village needs to order more chairs for the Square. Remind me to get you the details before you leave.”

MJ nodded. “I finished the crib, I’ll be by this week to drop it off.”

“I, on the other hand,” Jenna said as she and Cleve approached the table, “am not going to be finished with the baby quilt this week. But I have loads of time, because I’m staying to take over the tailor’s shop!”

“Oh thank _god,”_ Eliot gushed, and stood to come around and hug her.

“Eliot’s been dying for a tailor since our clothes from home started to fall apart,” Quentin said. “Ordering from Town has been hit-or-miss for getting things to fit right.”

“Oh, Q, stop,” Eliot admonished. “She’s also my _friend,_ and I’m just glad to know you’ll be here for good. _Please_ tell me you aren’t going to move into the wagon--”

“No, she’s domesticatin’ me and movin’ me into the house,” Cleve said mournfully.

“I told you, you can keep it to hang out in and use as your shop,” Jenna said. “But there’s no reason not to be comfortable when we have the tailor’s house. It’s small but it’s easily three times the size of your wagon.”

“See?” Mama said to Wren. “I’m not the only one who thinks that. Anyway, Cleve, it’s about time you moved properly indoors. That wagon’s gonna fully sink and tip over one of these days.”

“Aw, you’ve been sayin’ that for years,” Cleve said. “Hey Eliot, wasn’t there gonna be dancin’ at this here shindig?”

“The bride and groom go first, it’s our tradition. Q, Ari, are you ready? I just need you to give me the rhapsody spell,” he added breezily.

“Nice try, dick,” Quentin laughed. “I’ll do it, what song do you want?”

“You pick. Just make it something Cleve and I can harmonize to.”

Quentin considered this. “Get Hund on the lute, I’ve got one. Wife, we’re up,” he said as he rose and held out his hand to her.

Cleve went to Hund’s table, and when the shopkeeper had his lute, the two of them met Eliot at the wedding thrones as Quentin and Arielle took their place on the dancefloor. 

Others tried to rise and join them, but Eliot stopped them with flapping hands. “Shoo, you’ll get your chance in a bit. First, we are all going to watch our favorite couple have their first dance as husband and wife--”

“They can join too, we don’t care--” Quentin tried to interject.

Eliot waved him off. “Nonsense. You are getting the full package, and that means a first dance,” he insisted. “Now, get us started.”

Quentin twisted his arms into the rhapsody tut, and Hund found himself strumming out [ a soft, sweet, slow-but-upbeat song. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EkHTsc9PU2A) Arielle slipped into her husband’s arms, but as they found the beat, they began to pull apart and held hands, bouncing and swaying to the beat. Quentin gave her a twirl, which made her laugh, and soon, Eliot began to sing, a grin breaking out on his face as he recognized the song. 

_Well you done done me and you bet I felt it_

_I tried to be chill but you're so hot that I melted_

_I fell right through the cracks_

_And now I'm trying to get back_

_Before the cool done run out_

_I'll be giving it my best-est_

_And nothing's going to stop me but divine intervention_

_I reckon it's again my turn_

_To win some or learn some_

 

*

Quentin pulled his bride close to him for the next lines, and sang them to her.

_But I won't hesitate no more, no more_

_It cannot wait, I'm yours, hmmmm_

The song didn’t have harmony for two, as Eliot had suggested, but it did have a space for background vocals, which Cleve, his hand on his heart, happily supplied. 

_Ay, ay, ay, yay, yay, yay_

“I feel like I should be saying sentimental stuff,” Quentin chuckled in her ear, “but I think I used it all up already.”

“It’s all right,” Arielle agreed, “I don’t feel like crying to this song, it’s so happy! Just like I am with you.”

_Well open up your mind and see like me_

_Open up your plans and damn you're free_

_Look into your heart and you'll find love love love love_

“You’re trying for a second round?” Quentin laughed. “You can’t win. I love you so much that--”

“Shh, don’t talk, I want the last spot this time.” 

“I think our Plus One might get it,” Quentin nodded to Eliot, who had started the next verse, and was getting choked up on the line,

_Listen to the music of the moment people dance and sing_

_We are just one big family_

_And it's our God-forsaken right to be loved loved loved loved loved_

Arielle put her hand on her heart and blew Eliot a kiss, and he caught it and placed it on his heart as he and Cleve harmonized on the chorus.

_So I won't hesitate no more, no more_

_It cannot wait I'm sure_

_There's no need to complicate_

_Our time is short_

_This is our fate, I'm yours_

 

*

Mama swayed in her seat and tapped her foot to the beat. She liked this song a great deal, and made a mental note to ask Eliot to sing it again at the tavern next week’s-end night. Quentin and Arielle seemed to be enjoying it as well, glowing with happiness as they whispered to each other. When the song finished, everyone clapped and cheered, and the bride and groom gave a bow.

“Free skate!” Eliot cried out, and when this didn’t translate to the Fillorians, he added, “Everyone to the dance floor!”

This brought another cheer and everyone moved in to the dancing area as Hund began to play a[ Fillorian tune on the lute, light and pretty ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IO2z3fTncfc).

“My turn!” Eliot-- who could not seem to turn down his exuberance-- cried out, and pushed his way through the crowd to his friends. “I get her next!”

“Seems your dance card is free, for now,” Mama said to Rand. “Wanna take a spin?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Rand smiled, and took her hand to lead her to the dancefloor.

 

*

Eliot couldn’t be away from Arielle for another second. Quentin had been with her all day-- which was only right, he reminded himself-- but while she might be his best friend’s wife, she was also _his girl,_ and today had been so strange and he had spent too much time away from the woman who, when they weren’t working, was usually never more than a hundred feet from him. He’d had enough of watching her from afar, and wanted her in his arms. He performed for nearly everyone else, but he could be his real self with her, and he longed to step backstage with her for a few minutes and take a break from the show.

“Don’t let her have the last word!” Quentin teased, as he went back to their table. Arielle laughed as Eliot pulled her into his arms.

“I think I should pat you down for shovels,” Eliot smirked. “You know, we had it handled, you didn’t have to--”

“Oh, Eliot, sometimes I think you don’t get me at all,” Arielle sighed. “First of all, I thought he was after me, and I told you, I can handle myself.”

“I didn’t think you meant violently.”

“In all ways,” she said primly. “The Sisters were very thorough. And second, Q wants me to remind you that were a damsel in distress,” she teased.

“Oh my _savior,”_ he sighed rapturously, “but you were the damsel in _dat dress,_ I was in a death cage. I guess we managed to ruin both of them. You should have run for cover.” 

“No way,” she said, her eyes twinkling with excitement, “I couldn’t stay back! You were _flying,_ Eliot, and _sparkling,_ and Q just ran right up to your side to fight with you--”

“Well, that’s him. He never shies away from a fight. Not like, a _bar_ fight, but in magic-- I know he doesn’t seem the type, but he’s a hero underneath. He’s saved the world more than once, you know.”

“But always with you,” Arielle sighed again. “Team Queliot.”

“Team Queliot includes you, my dear.”

“Only because I wormed my way in,” she said, and paused. “I was thinking about this earlier tonight. You know why I grabbed that shovel today? Not just because he was like, my arch-nemesis-- or so I thought-- and I wanted a piece of him. But because you were _so beautiful,_ you and Quentin, together, and I just-- I had to be a part of it. Get into it. Get close to it. Be inside it. And that’s why I started hanging around the Mosaic, too, I think. If Q and I hadn’t fallen in love, I would have demanded I become your servant, or apprentice, or something,” she laughed. “Anything to stay close to you, both of you.”

“Oh, I would have married you, and fuck the rules,” Eliot said. “You know, Quentin didn’t think you were real, the first day we met you.”

“What did he think?”

“That you were a trap of some kind. Because, you,” he said as he gave her a twirl and pulled her close again, “were too, too perfect. And then as we got to know you, well. We both knew we wanted you with us, somehow. You think you wormed your way in, but _I_ think I reeled you in with our pretty boy over there. And I suspect _he_ thinks he used me to get you to stick around.”

Arielle laughed. “We are a hot mess, aren’t we?”

“The hottest,” Eliot agreed. “Was this what the rabbits were about?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Shipper,” he teased. “You need to let that go.”

“Oh, it’s too late for that,” Arielle laughed. “If you were pretend, like in a movie story, and we were on Earth, I’d be the greatest Queliot shipper that ever lived! Posting fan art on the tumbly thing and writing terrible poetry and crying into my pillow that I’d never know a love like yours.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “Ah, yes, a love that crashed and burned in six months. What a triumph. Hashtag love wins.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I? You have something with him that I never could.”

“Well, duh, I’m a different person. Eliot, you are so dumb sometimes.”

“Enlighten me.”

Arielle looked at him seriously, sizing him up. “I don’t know if I should. Maybe you need to work it out for yourself.”

 _Another episode of_ The Mysteries of Quentin _ends in a cliffhanger,_ he thought. He changed the subject. “Okay, I have to know. Why are we talking about him being with me, when you just married him not six hours ago?”

Arielle was quiet for a moment. “I was thinking, tonight, after everything… Q told me how the spell was protecting everyone, but still, we got close today. I thought he was after me, and I was thinking about our baby, and…”

“What? What is it, Ari?” he asked, pulling back to look into her eyes, which were welling with tears. 

“If anything ever happens to me, El, you gotta promise me, _swear_ to me, that you will figure it the fuck out and just _be with him._ For real. And raise our son, your son.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Eliot deflected.

“Okay, well, if it’s him, instead, I will stay with you forever. Ride or die. And if it’s you, then-- well, I mean, we just got married, so I guess that’s obvious, but I mean it, if anything happens to Team Queliot, any of us, the rest of the team stays together, no matter what.”

“I can agree to that.” 

“But not to--”

“Ari, it’s just-- it’s complicated--”

“Eliot, were you not even listening to the song you sang? _There's no need to complicate, o_ _ur time is short…”_

 _But what she doesn’t know is that our time is short because of the fucking goddamn key, and saving the goddamn world,_ he thought. _I’m the one who will leave. And it will tear me apart._ “Ari--”

“I’m just telling you what I want. I won’t bring it up again. I just love you both so much, and you love each other, and I just want you to stop being dumb and just _be with him._ And maybe you don’t want to do it with me here, I get that, and I don’t want to change what we have, all of us, because it’s _so godsdamn beautiful,_ but if it _is_ me that’s in the way, and if I’m ever not--”

“Oh, Ari, you’re not in the way,” Eliot said, his heart full to breaking and tears pricking his eyes. “It wasn’t like that before you, you made it better.”

“Q said so too, and if that’s true then I am the happiest, luckiest girl in all of Fillory. But--”

“But?”

“Look. I’m not going to be happy unless I know that there is a plan for my son, if something did happen. And maybe that doesn’t have to be two dads in love, married, the whole deal, but I just can’t let this go until I tell you how I feel. You should be together. Forever. And that’s just how it is.”

 _Two dads in love, married, the whole deal._ His mind flashed to a daydream he used to have while laying tiles-- of wearing a silk scarf tucked into Brunello Cucinelli cashmere pea coat, holding a latte in one hand and Quentin’s hand in the other, walking down the sidewalk on a crisp fall day in Chelsea, and this time their son trotted along holding Quentin’s other hand, bundled up adorably in a Burberry coat, and a knit cap with a pompom that bounced as he struggled to keep up while also splashing in every puddle. 

He looked over at Quentin, talking with Mama, in this barn, in Fillory, where he would always be. Life was what it was, but she wasn’t wrong. He needed Quentin, and his heart ached at the thought of life without him. He let himself feel it for a moment, knowing this was a box he was going to have to repack and bury again. _Until I’ve dropped off their goddamn key and can go on a bender. Let someone else find the next one. Margo can keep running things, if she hasn’t burned it all down yet._ They’d only been gone a few weeks, Earth time. _Ibiza. Ibiza and so many drugs._

“El?”

He looked down into Arielle’s eyes, full of love, and hope. He pulled her closer and rested his cheek on her head. Nothing was going to happen to her, to any of them, except that one day he would leave and she wouldn’t understand why. He hoped the spell would make it easier for her. And in the meantime, _he_ could make it easier for her. She needed this, and the words felt so true in this moment anyway, he couldn’t resist. He was weak, and he knew it, but he could be strong tomorrow, when everything was packed away. “I can’t make promises for him,” he said, his heart in his throat. “But… yes, okay. I promise, if there is ever a world that you’re not right by his side, I-- I will be. However he wants it.”

“That’s all I can ask,” Arielle sighed, and pulled back to kiss him on the cheek. “I love you.”

Eliot wrapped her into a hug, pulling her off her feet. “Ride or die,” he whispered.

 

*

Quentin had been sharing a laugh with Gish when Gana pulled her husband up for a dance at the start of a new song, but he wasn’t alone for long, as Mama and Rand soon returned. She sat down next to him as Rand excused himself for the outhouse, which Eliot had thoughtfully included in the wards.

“Guess they’re going for another round,” she said, nodding to Eliot and Arielle, who seemed so lost in each other that they hadn’t noticed the song had ended and a new one begun. 

“They haven’t had much time together today.”

“And you haven’t had much time alone. How’re you holding up?” 

Quentin smiled. Mama always got it. He propped his elbows on the table and rubbed his face. “I could use a walk in the woods.”

“Are you going to be able to do that, do you think? Going forward?”

“What? Wander off on my own? God, I hope so. Just probably-- not farther than a quick sprint to Eliot, I guess.” That seemed like a good plan, actually. If anyone showed up-- Frustrated Puzzle Man or Arielle’s witch-- he could run for Eliot and pull the intruder onto their own turf, where he had backup. And their baby. He would need to adjust this plan. “Or try to get a rabbit out.”

“Keep carrots on you. Gets you a quicker rabbit.”

“Really?”

Mama laughed. “I have no idea. But it couldn’t hurt to carry a snack.” She paused. “And Arielle’s got trouble, too?”

“I think-- maybe she should tell you?” he said hopefully. 

Mama gave him the side-eye. He wasn’t going to get off that easy. “Give me the highlights.”

“It’s just-- well, I mean, it’s turned out just like our trouble? It could show up anytime, or never? The last time hers-- bothered her-- maybe, it’s still unclear-- was over 10 years ago. She was just a kid, and she’d started to think maybe her aunts over-reacted, maybe it isn’t anything.”

Mama frowned. “Biddy was prone to gossip, but not to exaggeration. She had you pegged from the start. Said you thought Eliot hung the moons, the day she met you.” 

He looked over to Eliot and Arielle, still lost in their dance. “I wonder what they’re talking about.”

“My guess? You.”

“Hmm.” He felt heat rise in his cheeks. He knew they talked about him a lot-- they would always come away with bits to tell him later-- and it simultaneously made him feel awkward and also like the most loved man in Fillory. “What about me?”

“Do you really want me to tell you?”

“Sure.” They would tell him something later, probably, but this would be uncurated. Mama was always right.

“Well, I’d imagine, from the way she’s looking at him like she’s begging for something, and the way he keeps casting his eyes away and deflecting, that she’s--”

“Asking him to marry us. And he’s refusing. Again,” Quentin sighed, and rubbed his face, harder this time. “I practically proposed to him last night, and he put me off, and I told her, and now she’s trying.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s pointless. Eliot will come as far as he wants and no farther. Don’t get me wrong, he’s been great, and he seems really excited about being parents with us, but--”

“But?”

Quentin shook his head helplessly, palms up. “There’s quest shit? And, well, whatever we have isn’t-- it isn’t that. I guess. I don’t know,” he moaned, running his hands through his hair, “it’s all this wedding stuff? It’s bringing up shit that we-- it’s all _extra._ We’re fine, the way we are. We’re best friends, and we’re good, we’re _so_ good. Better than ever. We just-- need to leave it alone. We’ll get through this and when the festivities end and we go back to our normal lives we can just-- _be._ ”

“And the baby will help. From what I hear, he’ll be the sole focus of your attention for awhile.”

“Do you wish you’d had kids?” he asked.

“But I do, I have you. And all I missed-- well, I was going to say all I missed was the tears and the teenage romance angst but you’re something of a late bloomer in that regard,” she teased. 

Quentin’s mind cast back to he and Eliot crying all over each other in the tavern that morning years ago, and he chuckled. “Ari straightened us out. She’s good like that.”

“Incoming,” Mama noted, as Eliot and Arielle finally finished their dance and began walking toward them, hand-in-hand. 

Arielle smiled at him with a little shrug, _I tried. But things are okay._

Quentin smiled back at her, _It’s not your fault, he’s a tough nut to crack._

“May I have this dance?” Eliot asked, his hand out, rocking on his ankle as he did when he was unsure, like he thought Quentin might refuse, even though they had planned for this. He looked vulnerable, and a little wrung out. 

Eliot had worked so hard to give them the perfect wedding, only to see it smashed to bits in front of him, but was still going, still trying. And here they were, still asking more of him, things he couldn’t give even if he wanted to. It wasn’t fair. 

“Yeah, of course.” Quentin stood and took his hand, and let Eliot lead him to the dancefloor as [ Hund began a new song. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EyCmi70aqm4&loop=1)

Eliot slipped an arm around his waist and took his right hand and held it to his chest, and they began to sway together. He smiled down at him. “Hi.”

It was the first time Quentin had really looked into Eliot’s hazel eyes all day. The barn disappeared, and the world was only them. “Hi.”

“Come here often?”

Quentin smiled. “Only when I get married.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, my best friend throws the most _amazing_ wedding receptions in barns. And then I forget to thank him.”

“He’s very forgiving. I hear he does a fine job in castles, as well.”

“I can’t vouch for that,” Quentin pointed out kindly. Truth be told, he was so wrapped up in his own problems when Eliot was planning his castle wedding to Idri, he hadn’t paid any attention. But for all the fluttering about, he did seem like he knew what he was doing. “Did you ever plan one, back home?”

“Don’t all boys?”

“Some, I guess,” Quentin admitted.

“Where was yours?”

“At the Old Stone House in Brooklyn.” He’d never had a wedding fantasy, not really. But he had walked past this historic home on Saturday afternoons to get to his favorite bookstore when he was a kid, and more often than not, well-dressed people in corsages and tuxedos were mingling in or pouring out, everyone smiling and laughing. It wasn’t really a _plan,_ but that house _was_ weddings to him, and he’d always sort of assumed he’d end up getting married there someday. He could never have dreamed that his wedding venue could be found in the bookstore instead, in a copy of _Fillory and Further._  

“Ugh, at least the quest saved you from a Brooklyn wedding. Rustic beams and faux-vintage lightbulbs and drinking out of fake Mason jars, gross.”

“Says the man who just ate a tart on a barrel.”

“We’re in a _barn,_ in _Fillory._ It works here. Wren kept trying to tell me, yours and Arielle’s wedding style profile should be rustic, but I just couldn’t get off of Whitespire-style medieval fantasy. But I guess he was right. I should have made Mason jars.”

“Eliot.”

“Quentin,” the taller man said, with a twinkle in his eye that said, _good, we’ve established we know each other’s names._

“I’m-- I’m sorry. For getting carried away? With the wedding stuff.” 

“No, that was _me,_ baby. _You_ hardly lifted a finger,” Eliot smirked.

“You know that’s not what I mean. I mean about-- us. Last night? Talking about-- getting married. I mean, it’s _us,_ Eliot. It’s just with Arielle, and the baby coming, our family, I just--”

“Classic wedding fever,” Eliot said dismissively. “It’s gotten all of us. Ari, too.”

“What did she say?”

“Mm-mm,” Eliot shook his head, and his eyes grew wistful. “That’s between us.”

“Oh.” Then maybe it wasn’t about him. He wondered if Arielle would tell him. “And it-- got you, too?”

 _“So_ hard. Especially when you stepped in front of me in the fight. _Very_ dashing.”

No matter what had ever passed between them, it was hard to imagine himself impressing Eliot Waugh with magic. He had stepped into the cloud of smashing chairs on instinct, only to find he couldn’t see very well, shooting magic blasts in the general vicinity of where he thought The Stranger was, and hoping for the best. Eliot had been magnificent, flying with perfect control though he rarely did it, and flashing the red fire Quentin thought of as his tell. “Oh, no, _you._ You were so-- you looked like Dr. Strange! You just needed a cape. Totally fever-inducing.”

Eliot blushed and tossed his curls with a laugh. “Oh-ho, Benedict Cumberbatch? Now, Q, how will we ever get over our collective madness if you keep hitting my praise kink like that?” 

“You think we will?”

“Of course,” Eliot said reassuringly. “We are who we are, Baby Q, and it is what it is. Que sera, sera. We’re okay. We just need to ride it out.”

“Yeah, okay, good.” He rested his head on Eliot’s chest, and listened to his heart beating. He hadn’t held him since last night, with the kissing, and the thought made his cheeks burn. He wondered if this was _their_ first dance, as husbands, they would be kissing. _Wedding fever._ _Our collective madness._ He thought of Arielle, saying that her shovel blow was cathartic, and that she wanted to do it again. _It’s like that,_ he thought. Marrying Arielle-- after having nothing but heartbreak until this point--  was cathartic too, and he just wanted to do it again, that was all. Make everything as clear between him and this beautiful man as it was with his beautiful wife. 

But everything _was_ clear, in its own, messed-up way-- he _had_ Eliot, in every way he could, and Eliot had him, and they both had Arielle and their baby, and everything was going to be fine. Better than fine, perfect. _Until he leaves,_ Quentin thought, and squeezed him tighter. Eliot responded by running his hands over his hair and kissing his head. _Oh, of course. We wouldn’t be kissing. It would be just like this, and he would kiss my head and rub my back just like he’s doing now._ He relaxed even more into Eliot’s arms. _And why not? Why not just enjoy this, get swept up in wedding fever and live the dream, just for a few minutes?_ It wouldn’t change anything, and _not_ doing it wouldn’t change anything. He stopped thinking and just listened to Eliot’s heart.

“Paris,” Eliot murmured softly into his hair.

“What?”

“I’d marry you in Paris. Not Brooklyn.”

Quentin swallowed hard before he could speak. “Under the Eiffel Tower?”

“Mm-mm. Too many tourists. In a walled garden, with a big wrought-iron gate. Lush, with vines covering the old stonework. I’m in Brioni, and you’re in… Tom Ford, I think. Or something vintage.”

They continued to sway, curled up in each other. Quentin’s eyes were closed, and he was trying to imagine the sounds of the traffic outside the garden where they danced, which was certainly not the point of the setting, but still. Quentin missed traffic, honking horns, the roar of motorcycles, the whine of emergency sirens. _Parisian_ sirens, he reminded himself. “If it’s a walled garden, can’t it be in Brooklyn? Then we could serve local craft beer in the jars,” he added with a grin.  

Eliot chuckled. “Alright, the wedding’s off, then. I can’t _even_ with you.”

“I can’t believe that in the end I lost you over Brooklyn,” Quentin sighed happily, with a tone of faux-regret. “It’s the home of Captain America!”

“I might reconsider for Steve Rogers,” Eliot quipped dryly, “he’s very cute.” He hugged Quentin tighter. “I wonder if some rabbits can travel through time as well as across dimensions?”

“We’ll figure something out,” Quentin reassured him. “We can do hard things, remember? I’m more worried about us being fathers, _Papa.”_

“That _is_ a completely shocking thought,” Eliot agreed. 

“Five months.”

“Have you come up with a name?”

“Yes, but you’ll have to wait for the naming ceremony.”

“Just-- don’t name him Eliot. There would be two of us, and we’d end up calling him Ellie, and that’s what my brothers called me. I hated it.”

“Off the list.”

“Thank you.”

“Although Eliot Coldwater-Waugh sounds pretty great.”

Quentin felt Eliot’s breath hitch. 

“You’re such a brat,” the taller man whispered into his hair.

“Oh, Eliot,” Quentin sighed. “You need to lighten the fuck up.”

Eliot laughed. “Ari?”

“Yeah.”

“Clever girl.”

 

*

Eliot lifted his cheek off of Quentin’s head and looked over at Arielle. She was watching them with her elbows on their barrel table, her chin propped up in her hands, and practically had cartoon hearts coming out of her eyes. _The greatest Queliot shipper that ever lived._  

When she caught his eye, she gestured with a point. _Are you two…?_

He smiled and shook his head. Then he gave a quick backwards nod, _Get over here._

She practically bounded out of her seat and ran over to them, at first encircling both of them in her arms, but they pulled apart and made room for her, enveloping her in theirs, and they swayed slowly together under the fireflies.  

And just as he had when he had returned Quentin’s kiss on the night of the anniversary, Eliot closed his eyes and let himself believe for just a moment that they got to have everything, and keep it. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry I fell off my weekly schedule, but now that you’ve seen how long it is, perhaps you’ll forgive me for taking so long to wrestle it all into submission. Looking ahead, currently my plans involve the next story beat being one monster chapter too, rather than a series, so prepare to wait a bit for it. Thank you for being patient with me, and I can’t wait to hear your comments! 
> 
> Oh, and I’ve finally broken canon. After looking back over the available footage, Eliot wears his wedding ring to Fen up until they change his costume to Teddy moving out, and Quentin never wears one. You can’t quite see Ari’s left hand after Teddy arrives. But since I’d already gotten rid of Eliot’s without realizing, and I wanted to do this First Gifts tradition, I decided to heck with it. This one time I’ll let myself off the hook. :)
> 
> Song credits: _We Are The Champions_ by Queen, Quentin and Arielle dance to _I'm Yours_ by Jason Mraz, Eliot and Arielle dance to _Pavana alla Veneziana_ by Joan Ambrosio Dalza, and Quentin and Eliot dance to _Medieval Love Farewell for Lute_ by Andrei Krylov. Plus, if you didn't recognize it, "despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage" is a line from The Smashing Pumpkin's _Bullet with Butterfly Wings._


	40. Friendship Is Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cleve hedges his bets.

It was a fine spring day when Eliot walked down to Cleve’s wagon, giving a wave to the tavern as he passed, in case Mama was looking out the window. 

All of the days in Fillory were fine spring days, he had discovered. He hadn’t noticed this in Whitespire. He was there for months at a time, but had always assumed he’d missed winter by some strange coincidence. And maybe that was still true-- perhaps there was something special going on in this time, or having to do with the Mosaic, like how it never rained at their house-- but in their four years on this quest, there had never been anything but spring. Sometimes warm enough that he could get a sheen of sweat in his shirtsleeves, which they called summer, and sometimes cool enough that he needed traditional Fillorian layers, which they called winter, but never sweltering or cold. He missed the snow. And snow days. Not that he couldn’t get time off from the puzzle-- as he and Quentin often took turns, he was able to schedule a free afternoon every now and again. And when he had the afternoon off _and_ the next morning, as he did today, he visited Cleve.

The river sparkled sunlight in his eyes as he came down the hill. The quaint little wagon looked deceptively small from the outside, perhaps because of the size of the large oak it was parked under, but it was about the size of the trailers his cousins lived in on his grandfather’s land. He passed the hand-drawn signs and crossed the yard, which looked less lived-in since Cleve had moved into the tailor’s house with Jenna, with fewer pieces of furniture outside and a campfire pit that looked like it hadn’t been lit in some time.  

“Cleve?” Eliot rapped on the door of the listing wagon. _Mama’s right,_ he thought, _this thing is starting to sink to the point that it will tip over._

“Yeah, c’mon in,” Cleve called out.

“Cleve, my good man,” Eliot said grandly as he stepped up into the crowded wagon. On the right side of the narrow center aisle was a single bed which doubled as a couch. Across from that, close enough that Eliot’s knees would touch it when he sat, was a long table that Cleve used as a counter, covered over with papers and dirty dishes, with crates stacked haphazardly below filled with unknown oddities, and shelves above crammed with books and more papers. There was another groaning shelf above the bed.

“Ontray, monsewer, ontray.” Cleve had a satchel out on the bed, and was filling it with what seemed like entirely random objects from a pile next to it-- a cloudy old jar filled with unknown contents, a small birdcage, and some small sachets made of fabric Eliot recognized from Jenna’s shop. Cleve moved these over, along with a small pile of clothes, to make room for his guest. 

“I have the afternoon off,” Eliot said, swinging his own satchel off his shoulder and onto the bed, “and items for trade. Shall we, as the learned say, get righteously fucked up?”

“Aw man, I gotta get ready to head out first thing in the morning. My kind of inventory don’t get delivered, you know.” 

Eliot thought of Cleve as his drug dealer, as the only items he’d ever purchased from the little man were of the mind-bending variety. But these things weren’t illegal here, just hard to obtain. As with anything in Fillory, most special items required a quest, or could only be found in remote corners of the land, or stolen from some guarded place. There wasn’t a black market, per se, but there was a network of shady characters that traded for such items, and Cleve went out every couple of months to travel around and see what he could acquire for his shop.

Cleve’s business plan was questionable, at best. He’d set up his wagon on the South River Road, on the theory it would see some traffic, as the two river roads linked to Town to the north and Other Town to the south. He fancied his wagon to be a roadside attraction, a museum of oddities, a trading post for hard-to-get items, and a place to pull up by the fire and hear wild stories. The problem was, there was a much more direct route between these towns than the one that went through the Village, and people rarely came this way. Eliot often thought the little man would have been forced to relocate if he hadn’t had such a faithful customer as himself.

Eliot groaned at the news and flopped down on the couch. He had been looking forward to this. “How long will you be gone?” he pouted.

“Few days.”

“Hmm.” He didn’t want to take a vacation of the mind by himself. Arielle was about to pop with the baby, and Quentin had once had some strange experience with Penny that put him off psychedelics. He could rework the schedule, take the morning puzzles tomorrow and plan for another afternoon off, but he did not want to wait for days. “Does Jenna partake?” If Cleve was away, she would be free to hang out with.

“Little bit. Now, don’t you go movin’ in on my lady while I’m gone,” the man teased, as he caught the little birdcage that kept trying to roll off the bed due to the listing angle of the wagon.

“Cleve.” Eliot stretched his arms out on the pillows behind him that made the bed into a couch. “I will not try to pretend that I’m above such things, or that a tailor wouldn’t, in general, be a useful poach, but the last thing I would want is to move in on your _lady.”_

“Oh. Right,” Cleve shrugged. “I keep forgettin’.”

Eliot chuckled and shook his head. He never code-switched here, because he didn’t have to. While being gay wasn’t common in Fillory, it also wasn’t taboo, just odd, so there was nothing to butch up for. He was _already_ odd, being considerably taller than most Fillorians, and a Magician widely rumored to be from Earth, so he felt free to be as _light in his loafers--_ as his father called his grand persona when he was in a better mood and not using curse words-- as he pleased. But it still caught him off guard sometimes that none of his mannerisms ever read to them as _males only need apply._

The birdcage rolled off onto the floor. Cleve moved too quickly to try to catch it, and the wagon gave a groan and leaned further to the west.

“Do you want me to straighten this place out?” Eliot offered. “I could lift it while you get some, I don’t know, rocks or something down in the mud to hold it up?”

“Oh, I’m working on it,” Cleve said cryptically.

“What does that m-- Ow!” Eliot cried out, as something slid off the shelf above and hit him on the head and fell to the floor. He reached down and found a small book whose leather cover read _Spells for the Home._

“Um, yeah, so you can put that back. Right up there,” Cleve said, trying to sound casual.

It had been so long since Eliot had held a spell book, it nearly brought tears to his eyes. His mind flashed a supercut of Brakebills, of classrooms, and the old library, and of leaning against the shelves in a remote corner of said library clutching a leather-bound spell book to his chest while being blown by-- Harold? or Hank? The horomancy boy. _Quentin will go full-on nerd when he sees this,_ he thought. _I have to get it home. "_ Cleve… what are you doing with this? And where did you _find_ it?”

Cleve shrugged. “Oh… you know… around.”

“Around _where?”_

“El, you know I don’t talk about my connections. The woods have ears.”

“This isn’t like getting elf coke. This is _magic.”_ Eliot turned the spell book over in his hands. It was handwritten and hand-bound, as were all books in Fillory. 

“Which makes it even more dangerous to be flappin’ our gums about.”

“Why?” Eliot opened the book. There was no sign of an author, or ownership stamp. All of the books at Whitespire had the royal seal embossed on the title page, but this had no markings like that at all, no way to tell where it had come from.

_“Because of the Cabal!”_ Cleve whispered loudly. “Don’t you ever _listen?”_

Eliot sighed. He had heard Cleve go off on this rant before, but he _hadn’t_ listened, because it was all nonsense. “The Cabal of _whom?”_ he said impatiently.

“Nobody _knows,_ Eliot, that’s the whole fuckin’ point, ain’t it? But whoever They are, They don’t want us gettin’ ahold of stuff like this, nossir.” Cleve pulled up a small stool and leaned in close, speaking quietly but urgently. “Look, the magic, it comes from the Wellspring, right? But it’s not just there, it’s _everywhere,_ in the air, in the sky, in the plants and animals, in the _fucking rocks,_ Eliot, but we ain’t allowed to know how to _manipulate_ it, nossir, no way, no how. Not like you, with your fancy school, teachin’ you spells that let you control what’s around you. They want to keep us all stupid, like the sheep. Sheep people.”

“Sheeple,” Eliot corrected him absentmindedly. He was reading down the table of contents. Some of the entries claimed to be spells, but others, like _How to Tell If You’re Cursed,_ were more like advice. _Seven Ways To Appease Your House Spirits_ made him miss _Cosmo._

_“Sheeple…”_ Cleve said in wonder. “Yeah, I like that. Sheeple. Can I use that?”

“Be my guest,” Eliot said with a wave of his hand as he read. “It’s commonly used in conjunction with the phrase _wake up.”_

“Wake up, Sheeple!” Cleve called out. “Yep, that’s good. That’s _really_ good...”

“Cleve.” Eliot closed the book and pressed it between his hands. “We were talking about where you got this book.”

“Uh-uh,” Cleve said, shaking his head and standing to resume packing. “We _ain’t_ talkin’ ‘bout that, which is the point. Did you come down here high already?”

“Okay… then let’s talk about _why_ you want this book.”

“For my collection. For the shop,” Cleve said defensively.

“Is that all?” Eliot said sternly, in a voice he’d last used on Fray.

“Well, it ain’t like _you’re_ teachin’ me anything. But I’ve got other friends. And we got a right to do what you do,” he added defiantly.

“Goddamn it, Cleve!” Eliot groaned. “You’re a fucking _hedge witch.”_

“What’s that?”

“Sad, desperate people who trade spells to try to teach themselves magic. And then usually fuck everything up.” 

“But I can _do things--”_

“If you could _do things,_ little man,” Eliot snapped, “your wagon wouldn’t be falling into the river!”

“Look!” Cleve said, and pushed past him to the door.

Eliot followed him to the fire pit. Cleve stood over it with his right hand raised, all of his fingers pointing down, then flicked his thumb, rolled his fingers, and brought them upwards. The wood in the campfire pit gasped out a few sparks. “No, wait, I can do it,” he said, raising his hand to try again. 

“Cleve, stop,” Eliot sighed. “This is pathetic. And where the _fuck_ did you learn that tut?”

“I learned it from watching _you,_ Eliot!” Cleve huffed, red in the face.

Eliot stopped dead for a minute, and then threw his head back, his hand to his face, and laughed. _Jesus Christ, I’m going to be a terrible_[ _father,_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y-Elr5K2Vuo) he thought, and laughed harder. 

“The wood is wet, that’s all! It’s rained since I’ve been down here,” Cleve grumbled.

Eliot did the tut and a blazing fire sprang up. “You were saying?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Leave the magic to the Magicians. And I’m keeping this book.” He turned on his heel and strode quickly back into the wagon, using his long legs to gain advantage over the shorter man. 

Cleve raced after him, but Eliot was already inside scanning the shelves when he got to the door.

“And this one,” Eliot said, adding another spell book to the one in his hand. He skipped over admittedly intriguing titles like _Mysteries of the After Islands, Our Friends, The Rabbits,_ and _Questing Creatures, Fact or Fiction?_ and took the ones that claimed to have actual spells. “And this, and this. And-- well, the rest are useless, you can keep those. Though I might want to borrow some of them at some point.”

“Eliot!”

Eliot drew himself up-- not to his full height, as the ceiling was low, but the best he could manage-- and used his Royal Voice. “I am hereby confiscating these in the name of-- well, in the name of being one of two actually _trained_ Magicians in this village.”

“You cain’t just _take_ ‘em!” Cleve began defiantly, but Eliot glared at him and he backed down. “You can _pay_ for them, that’s it.”

“Fine.” Eliot picked up the satchel he had left on the couch and shoved it into Cleve’s chest. “Take my trade for _them,_ instead.” 

Cleve opened it to look inside at the goods, a few small tools and other discarded household items that he had gotten from Hund, repaired by Quentin for trading. He frowned, and looked longingly at the books in Eliot’s hand.

“It doesn’t matter what it is, it’s all you’re getting for these books, which I am leaving with, regardless,” Eliot said imperiously.

“Alright, fine, Mister _Magician,”_ Cleve muttered, as he shuffled past Eliot to unpack the bag. 

“Keep it,” Eliot sighed. It wasn’t Cleve’s fault that there were some toys too dangerous to play with. “Let me know when you get back, we can fix the wagon.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Cleve said sadly. 

Eliot frowned. He didn’t want to leave things in a bad way between them, but he had to get these books out of Cleve’s hands and back home to Quentin. “Safe travels,” he said, and made his way out of the door.

  
  


Later that evening, Eliot was chopping vegetables for a soup he was making on the hearth, while Quentin sat at the little kitchen table, one foot tucked under him, nose-deep in the books.

“Most of this is bullshit,” Quentin said sadly, as he turned the pages of _Spells for the Home_. 

“I know.”

“Like this one-- How To Make Dairy Stay Fresh? It’s not a spell. There’s a poem, in regular English, that doesn’t sound like a spell. Then, blah blah blah…a certain clearing, full moons, et cetera, and then you _put it in your cellar._ I only ever lived in apartments, but like, isn’t that the _point_ of a cellar? To preserve things?” 

“Yes,” Eliot grinned. “And for boys to breed spiders.”

“For what, now?” Quentin laughed. “Why did you need to breed _spiders?”_

“World domination,” Eliot said breezily. “I mean, it _might_ have worked. I left home before my army got very big. I wonder how they’re doing.” It pleased him to think the cellar was so overrun with spiders none of his relations could get near it. 

“Uh-huh…” Quentin chuckled. “Well, this doesn’t mention spiders. And maybe it’s not bullshit? For all I know, something magical _does_ happen with the moons in that clearing and if you catch it right, you get magically fresh dairy. Fillory is weird like that.” He flipped through more pages. “Okay, this one, though. This looks like a real spell, if I can read it. The language looks... archaic Fillorian.”

“Wouldn’t that just be Old English?” Eliot slid the vegetables off the cutting board into the pot and began to stir. 

“And how good is _your_ Old English, Beowulf?” Quentin retorted. “Oh, man, I’m so rusty at this. This word is mirror…” He furrowed his brow in concentration as he read, slowly and absentmindedly tucking his hair behind his ear. “Okay, so, it basically turns a mirror into a webcam?”

Eliot spun around, a dripping spoon in his hand and a wicked look in his eye. “Quentin. Hear me out--”

“You’re not going to become a cam boy, Eliot.” 

“Not me, _you!”_

“Fuck off.”

“Pretty boy like you, Doe Eyes, we’d be rolling in it, that’s all I’m saying,” Eliot chuckled, as he turned back to his cooking. “We need to be planning for the future, _Dad.”_

“And your plan is to pimp me out?”

“It’s worked so far,” Eliot smirked. “Speaking of which, shouldn’t Ari be home by now?”

“She and Nalie are hanging out tonight down at New House. We weren’t expecting you to be home tonight, since you went to hang out with Cleve.”

Eliot spun around on him again. “Quentin. Coldwater.” He used no middle name or hyphenate, to convey his sincere irritation _._ “You just sat there and watched me cooking for all of us and didn’t say _anything!”_

“I _wasn’t_ watching, I was looking at the books, per your _previous_ orders, Your _Majesty,”_ Quentin huffed.

“Fucking brat,” Eliot muttered. “Well, guess what you’ll be eating for lunch tomorrow, then.” He turned back to the soup, which he tasted, then added more seasoning and stirred. “One of those books had healing spells. Were they just first aid? Or anything useful?”

Quentin put down _Spells for the Home_ and pushed aside _One Minute Spells To Enrich Your Life_ and _Think Magically & Grow Rich _ to reach for _The Healer’s Guide._ He opened it to the table of contents, and paged through the book. “Mostly first aid, and again, a lot of it is just Boy Scout manual stuff? With a magical facade. Some rudimentary attempts at germ-killing, poultices made from certain plants? The kind of thing they did on Earth in the olden days. The drawings of the plants are very well done, I’ll say that. And there’s a list of herbal teas that basically looks like a Whole Foods natural medicine aisle. No way to tell if any of it is legit. Although, I guess the plants here _are_ magic.”

“The mushrooms certainly are. Taste this,” he said, holding out a spoon to Quentin’s mouth. 

The younger man pulled a face. 

“There’s no mushrooms in it, I promise,” Eliot reassured him.

Quentin licked it. “Needs salt.”

“Okay, so I’m not crazy.”

“Not for thinking that needs salt, anyway,” Quentin smirked. He motioned to the books. “So what is he doing with these?”

“Trying to fucking hedge. Apparently there’s a whole underground network of people passing this shit around.” 

“Just like home,” Quentin sighed.

_“Just_ like home,” Eliot agreed, “gross, ratchet, homemade spells. No way to tell if they’re legit or just scams, or defective, or even if they do what it says on the tin. It’s like getting drugs from some rando on the street corner. You have no _idea_ what’s in that shit. And Cleve is-- in the immortal words of Ol’ Biddy-- an _idjit,_ who will fall for anything that anyone tells him. Who knows where he goes or who he gets stuff from.”

“Eliot. This _is_ where you get your drugs.”

“Hmm,” Eliot frowned. Maybe he should rethink that. “Well, he needs to stay out of it. I don’t know why he thinks he can do them, anyway, he can’t possibly be magically gifted. He’s… _Cleve.”_

“He doesn’t need to be gifted to do Fillorian spells,” Quentin said. “Fillory _is_ magic. You don’t need a special ability to draw magic out of the environment and cast it on something like we do on Earth, the magic is already _in_ everything. Our spells still work here because there’s magic all around us to draw on. But Fillorians wouldn’t do it like that. Like your fire spell, you’re pulling magic _to_ the wood, but they’d use a spell to alter the magic _in_ the wood? So it burns. It’s not _their_ magic, it’s the _wood’s_ magic. Fillorian spells are just like, instruction manuals? On how to manipulate the magic in the world.”

“But if all Fillorian Muggles need are instructions, then why aren’t they all _Thinking Magically and Growing Rich_?” Eliot asked. “Loria had like, one weirdo with a wand.”

Quentin shrugged. “You own a laptop. You couldn’t write the manual for its operating system. That _Lorian weirdo_ might have just been the only one smart enough to figure it out. And it looks like they’re trying, someone’s trying.”

“Ah, I see, hence the Cabal,” Eliot chuckled. “A secret plot to keep them ignorant, according to Cleve,” he added to Quentin’s confused look. “What they don’t know is, it’s probably just their own two gods discouraging their NPCs from rooting around in the source code and fucking shit up while they’re playing.”

Quentin raised an eyebrow. 

“What? I’ve seen _The Matrix,”_ Eliot said defensively. 

“Well, anyway, the plot doesn’t seem so secret? When it comes into your house and takes your spell books,” Quentin pointed out. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to end up a featured character in a _True Story of Fillory.”_ He stood up and went to the icebox to retrieve a wineskin, and poured a cup for each of them. He set Eliot’s on the counter and leaned against it to sip at his own. “What I don’t understand? Is how he was able to even get a spark out of a fire spell from Earth, though. One that draws the magic? That’s weird.”

Eliot considered this as he took a sip of his wine. “It’s not that weird, actually. My fire spell _does_ change the composition of the wood until it combusts, I’m not shooting fire out of my hands, or even a sigil. Think back, first semester. What’s the classification mnemonic for spells?”

“DANGER.” Quentin began to tick them off on his fingers. “Discipline, Aspect, Nexus-- oh my god, right, _nexus!”_ he exclaimed. “The nexus of the spell’s _catalyst,_ it’s either in you or in the object. And that’s the one I always forget because--”

“Everyone forgets it,” Eliot agreed. “Because it doesn’t really matter, except for taxonomy, the magic always comes from us regardless. But now I’m getting why it’s even in there. Because if you go to a magical world--”

_“All_ the spells are _object_ nexus, like the fire spell,” Quentin finished for him. “Cleve was able to use it because the nexus of that spell is in the _wood,_ you’re telling the _wood_ to combust. And so, of course, it tried to use the wood’s magic to power it…” He slowly tucked his hair behind his ear as he moved back to his seat and sat on his foot again, leaning back against the wall. “Which is why it barely worked, the math was off, it was still trying to draw magic from the _world,_ too, and he couldn’t do that. But if you adapted it… but I’d need to see more of these to know how it… And you’d have to be able to identify the...” He trailed off and went silent.

_And… there he goes,_ Eliot thought fondly. It coincided neatly with him needing to focus on dinner. He gave the soup a final stir. He had gotten a bit carried away making it, enough for two family meals. Quentin had apparently forgotten to plan for his own supper-- he hardly ate if no one told him to-- but even if he served both of them, he’d still have way too much left over. He filled a large wooden bowl and covered it with a clay lid Arielle had sculpted for it. She had an endless array of talents, cultivated by the Sisters. He put the bowl in the icebox.

He was bored, and he had run out of things to occupy himself with. _“That’s_ my sweet, sexy Baby Q,” he purred loudly. “Lost in a nerd coma, just like the old days.”

“Brooklyn,” Quentin replied, absentmindedly tapping on his lip with his finger, still lost in thought. 

Since their time coming down from the wedding fever, this had become their shorthand for _ease off, we’re doing it again._ It had started out as longer jokes-- Quentin laughing off Eliot’s flirting with, _Nope, you lost your chance, over Brooklyn, you snob,_ or Eliot playfully dismissing Quentin’s sentimentality with, _Nope, you gave up this fine piece of ass for Mason jars, Brooklyn boy._ Then someone said, _No sleep till Brooklyn,_ and it just became that for a while. It had finally reduced down to a single word-- or two, if the phrase _Mason jars_ was used instead.  

“Ha, I thought you couldn’t hear me, wherever you’ve just gone to.”

“Sorry.” Quentin gave his head a little shake, and blinked as if he was just stepping out into the sun.

“Not at all,” Eliot said with a wave of his hand, “it’s one of my favorite things you do, leaving me here alone, left to stare at you being a thoroughly adorable statue.” He slid a bowl of soup and a spoon to Quentin. “I just hope you weren’t writing spells for Cleve in your head. _I_ don’t want him fucking shit up either. He should leave the magic to the people who know how to use it properly.”

“Hmm. Like elitist assholes like us, keeping them from learning anything.” 

_“I’m_ not an elitist asshole,” Eliot insisted as he brought his wine and a bowl of soup to the table for himself and sat down. “I’m a _classically trained Magician_ who knows that magic in the wrong hands, like Cleve’s, is a recipe for disaster.”

Quentin laughed. “No, you’re not an elitist asshole at _all.”_

“Look, city boy, only _one_ of us came from the land of rednecks. You don’t know. Cleve is a redneck through and through. A good heart, sure-- and that’s not _unheard_ of-- but redneck boys like to get drunk and blow shit up on a Saturday night, and I’m not going to be the one who gives him the tannerite. Oh, shit, I forgot the bread.” He waved a hand at the hearth and guided the browned loaf through the air to the table.

“Eliot, I know literally everywhere in the world is flyover country for _you--”_

“Ha. Ha.”

“--but what about Julia?”

“You said she got in every time until Jane kept her out,” Eliot said, bouncing the small hot loaf in his hands in a vain attempt to cool it off.

“She did, but, I mean, why is there even a system like that? Hoarding all the knowledge and deciding who gets to learn it? It’s not fair.”

“And look what she did with it! Those idiots called up Reynard and got everyone killed, and Julia raped.”

“Are you blaming _her?”_ Quentin said, genuinely angry and surprised.

Eliot flashed to[ finding Julia, ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OJ6X9qPurTs) broken, on the couch in her apartment, after she had gotten back her Shade. He didn’t know then exactly what had happened to her, but he _did_ know, in his heart, from the look in her eyes, which he recognized from his mirror. _It wasn’t our fault,_ he reminded himself as he tore the loaf in half, more roughly than he meant to. _They were literal monsters._ Quentin had helped him see that. That didn’t change his feeling that she and her friends had made a huge mistake messing around with things they didn’t understand, unsupervised. He could hold both thoughts at the same time. But saying so to Quentin-- who was determined to defend his oldest friend-- wasn’t helping him make his case. “No, of course not. What I’m saying is, our system _vets_ people. So things like that don’t happen. Have some bread.” He passed half the loaf to Quentin.

“Yes, Mayakovsky, for example. A fine, upstanding citizen,” Quentin said as he took it, rolling his eyes. 

“Mayakovsky became a Master Magician,” Eliot pointed out. “Cleve is going to blow his own arm off.”

“You don’t know that. And anyway, taking the books will only make him be more secretive about it. Suppression of knowledge--”

“Quentin,” Eliot said, trying to sound patient. “One of the great joys of this maddening quest is that I get to live in Fillory and _not_ argue about politics. I am, happily, a simple peasant, and not at _all_ in charge. Thank god.”

“Wait, say that again? I think I had a stroke. _Eliot Waugh_ is a happy peasant?”

“No, Eliot Waugh is a _cranky_ peasant. But not one that intends to upend a system that keeps spells out of the hands of novices. They don’t even _need_ it, everything just works here. It’s a storybook land, the crops grow, the wells are always clear, everyone shares and trades and has everything they could want, except the things they don’t know exist, like plumbing, and the internet. And who needs social media when you have Mama?” he added with a grin, and popped a piece of bread into his mouth.

“What about the magic we do for them?” Quentin asked.

Eliot waved a hand as he finished chewing. “Party tricks.”

“Not at our wedding, _Dr. Strange.”_  

“Brooklyn,” Eliot said with a crooked smile. 

“Fine, Rupert Chatwin, then,” Quentin chuckled. “Just an _average-looking_ battle magician, who won the war.”

_“You_ won our war, with your spell.” There had been no sign of the Frustrated Puzzle Man in the four months since the wedding, and Mama seemed content that the air was still sweet. Eliot had complete faith in the spell, but if Arielle was at New House, he knew Quentin had walked her down there and set up simple wards to alert them to trouble. “If you’re suggesting that we start a Dumbledore’s Army in the village--”

“I’m not,” Quentin said. “I’m not suggesting anything. Just-- don’t be so hard on Cleve. He has a point, that’s all.”

“He could get _hurt,_ Q. Or hurt someone else. And not just physically, look what magic has done for us. Nothing but heartache.”

“That’s not true! Magic is beautiful. _People_ are the problem.”

“Which is my point.”

“No, _Eliot,”_ Quentin said exasperatedly, “it’s _my_ point. Here the two of you are, fighting, and the spells in these books didn’t do that. Cleve is one of your closest friends--”

“Hush your mouth!” Eliot protested.

“He _is,_ Eliot, I know he’s like-- a weirdo, and your dealer or whatever, but outside of me, Ari, and Mama, he’s the one you spend the most time with. And Jenna, who will probably take his side. There’s like, what? Fifteen people in the village proper? And you’ve just alienated thirteen percent of them. Magic didn’t do that, _you_ did.”

Eliot frowned, torn between being tickled at how cute Quentin was when he did fast math in his head like that, and chastised that the math was aimed at him. “We’re not fighting,” he said defensively, rolling his shoulders. “I said safe travels and everything. And I paid for the books. Anyway, I don’t know why _you’re_ taking his side.”

“What about... Ari?” Quentin asked tentatively.

“What about her?”

“Eliot… there’s a more than zero percent chance that our baby is going to be a Magician. With… gifts.”

“Yes,” Eliot said fondly. “Your hair and her eyes.”

“You know what I mean. What if he’s telekinetic? Or worse, _pyrokinetic._ Plus, our current need for home defense? I was thinking, especially if they _can_ use our spells, we should-- I mean, we should try to see if we can teach her some things. Magic.”

Eliot waved this away. “She doesn’t need it. She’s a bitch on wheels with a shovel if anything happens, and if it’s the kid, we’ll be here. Work-from-home dads, remember?”

“Right, but what if we’re _not_ home for some reason,” Quentin said, “and T-- the _baby_ starts a fire, or, I don’t know, lifts the roof off the house--”

“Quentin,” Eliot laughed. “Even _I_ would have trouble lifting the whole roof off the house without additional spellwork. And anyway, it shouldn’t manifest until puberty. Magic comes--”

“--from pain,” Quentin finished. “Yes, I know. But--”

“And what did you mean by _worse?”_ Eliot cut him off to demand. “Is there something _wrong_ with being telekinetic? _You_ used to like it well enough,” he added with a huff, but also a twinkle in his eye. Years ago, one of his favorite ways to make Quentin quiver and beg had been to undress him very, very slowly with his telekinesis.

“Brooklyn.” Quentin ducked his head, his face flushing as he took another spoonful of soup.

“Nope, _that’s_ a cherished memory, which _you_ said I could keep to do with as I please,” Eliot said primly. He picked up his wine and settled back in his chair, crossing his legs. “And I’m pleased to torture you with it when necessary.”

“Well, it _wasn’t_ necessary, I didn’t mean it like that. What I _meant_ was worse to deal with _as a parent._ Not worse to be, as like, a _person.”_

“Hmm. Well.” Eliot considered the proposition on the table. It would be fun to spend time with Arielle, teaching her magic-- and if they had to teach The Kid later, it would be good practice. _“Maybe_ Ari, under supervision, _if_ you can get the spells safely worked out,” he conceded. “We do know we can trust her not to be stupid. But not Cleve, I’m putting my foot down, there.”

“He’s a grown man, he can make his own decisions,” Quentin pointed out.

“Not in my village, not about this.”

“Alright, fine, _Your Majesty,”_ Quentin said, rolling his eyes. “But you’d still better make up with him, because we will need more books eventually, and right now, he’s our only source. _And_ because he’s your friend.”

Eliot sighed. “They don’t call you Makepeace for nothing, do they?”

  
  


A few days later, Eliot was on his hands and knees laying tiles when a rabbit appeared in front of his face. 

_Cleve’s back. At wagon._

Another, _Doesn’t seem too mad._

They were from Mama, then. _Reads us all like books,_ Eliot thought, and sighed. _Time to deal with this, now._

“Go, I’ll finish,” Quentin said, walking over to the puzzle. He held out a rag.

_“Makepeace,”_ Eliot grumbled. He rose and took the rag to wipe the chalk and tile dust from his hands.

“Good luck,” the younger man replied as he took back the rag, and held up a hand, which Eliot slapped, both as a high-five for luck, and also a handoff of the puzzle work. “Love you.”

“Love you,” Eliot said, and he squared his shoulders and set off for the road.

  
  


He found Cleve outside the wagon, in front of a large steamer trunk, with piles of his belongings around him.

“Greetings, traveller,” Eliot called out as he neared.

The little man looked up at him. “Oh, hey-ya, Eliot,” he said brightly.

_Mama was right, as always,_ Eliot thought. _He seems happy enough._ “Are you-- packing?”

“Gonna move a lot of this up t’the house,” Cleve said. “Got to thinkin’, on my walk, about how I’d left it all here for you to ransack while I was gone.”

_Oh._  

“But when I got back,” the man continued, “everything looked untouched. So, kudos to you for being a gentleman, I guess. Still, I’d better improve my security. There was that fella from the wedding. Gotta keep this stuff on lockdown, just bring it out for open shop days.”

“You’re going to move your whole inventory every day?”

“Well, I’m only open three days a week, now that I don’t live there full time.”

“I could ward it for you,” Eliot offered. “Give you a spell key to open and close it.”

“Could ya, now?” Cleve said dryly. “You don’t say.”

_Here we go,_ Eliot thought. He took a breath. “Cleve, we should talk.”

The little man shrugged. “Woods have ears.”

Eliot gave a tut and a ward came up around them, a glowing cage. “And I have silencing wards.”

“Yes. You do,” Cleve sighed. “What’n the hell do you _want,_ Eliot?”

“I want to say I’m sorry,” Eliot said. “For being-- an elitist asshole, I guess. _Not_ for buying the books, though,” he added seriously.

_“Buyin’,”_ Cleve scoffed.

“They weren’t safe. You don’t even know where they _came_ from.”

“I don’t know where _you_ came from, either,” Cleve huffed.

“Okay, that’s fair,” Eliot acknowledged. He sized him up. _One of your closest friends,_ Quentin had said. He took a breath, rolled his shoulders, and took a chance. “I used to live in Whitespire,” he said, in a voice serious and steady.

Cleve’s mouth fell open. “Were you a--”

Eliot cut him off with a raised hand. “Cleve. I used to live in Whitespire, that’s all. Understand?”

“Ayup. Guess so,” Cleve said, his eyes narrowing.

“I just want you to know, I speak from experience.” Eliot took a step forward and placed a hand on the little man’s shoulder. “Look, Cleve, I just got scared for you. Messing around with spellwork is dangerous, but you don’t even know who _wrote_ this stuff, or how good it is. Or if you’re inadvertently doing someone’s dirty work. People could plant spells like Russians planting Twitter bots.” He shook his head. “Sorry, I mean, you could be doing something that’s feeding someone else’s spell, or setting up the right circumstances for _them._ Spells need to be written by _trained_ Magicians, and you have to know your source.”

“Are you offerin’ to teach me?” Cleve said hopefully. 

“No,” Eliot said firmly. “Even clean magic is dangerous. You could get hurt, and it’s not worth it. Just enjoy the magical land you’re living in, and let it do its thing.”

“Oh sure Mister _Everything Floats Around Me All The Time,”_ Cleve sneered. 

_“I_ know what I’m doing!” Eliot said exasperatedly. “I was _born_ telekinetic, I can’t help that, but I have half a lifetime of experience with it, and also I was _trained,_ by a proper school. Although, admittedly, I can’t show you a diploma, because I’m currently working on my graduate thesis. But trust me, after two and half years of training there, and a promotion to-- let’s call it _upper management,_ I can handle using magic on a daily basis. You can’t.”

Cleve leaned in such that he had to crane his neck to look up to the tall Magician. “Was it one of _Their_ schools? The _Cabal?”_ he whispered. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? That’s why you took the books.”

Eliot sighed. _Fine, if it’s the only thing that will work._ “Can we sit down?” he said seriously, motioning to some chairs and dragging them over into the wards where they stood. They sat, knees nearly touching. “I’m _not_ one, I swear. I swear on-- Quentin.”

“Okay…” Cleve said eagerly. 

“But You-Know-Who? From the wedding?” Eliot took a deep breath, and looked very seriously into Cleve’s eyes. “ _He_ was one.”

_“Oh…”_   the little man said, his eyes rapturously focused on Eliot’s. “He came all the way out here, because--”

“Because he could tell magic was being done here,” Eliot said sagely. “We drew him-- by _accident,”_ he hastened to add. “It’s his job to sense magic, and find out who’s doing it.”

“And he came to stop ya…” Cleve said in wonder, then frowned. “But you keep doin’ it.”

“Yes, because his magic was no match for ours, we showed him that.”

“Thought Ari hit him with a shovel,” Cleve muttered.

“Well, she jumped in and finished him off, but we were just toying with him,” Eliot said dismissively. “I’d like to see him come back and try again, but he won’t, because he’s scared of us. But if _you_ keep doing spells, out on the road, or here, all the way across the village from us, he’ll _know_ it’s not us, and come after _you.”_

Cleve’s eyes narrowed as he searched Eliot’s. “Hmm. And you _swear_ you’re not part of the Cabal?”

“I swear I’m not part of the Cabal,” Eliot said sincerely. “I just don’t want them to get you. Or for anything else to happen to you. I have to tell you, Cleve, I need you in my life. Sometimes I just _have_ to talk to someone who doesn’t live in my house. And get away from the puzzle and all my responsibilities, and just chill with someone. And no one does that better than you, and I don’t mean getting me high. Just hanging out with you, and swapping stories, and everything, my life would really suck if I didn’t have you in it.”

“Me too, El,” Cleve said, patting his knee. “No one else gets me like you do, except Jenna. Everyone just laughs at _funny ol’ Cleve,_ but not you.”

Eliot felt a tinge of guilt for laughing at him behind his back. He should take his friend more seriously. He smiled at him kindly. “Then will you _please_ do us both a favor, and leave magic alone? I’ll do anything for you that you need, fix the wagon, ward the place--” He brightened as he had an idea. “I tell you what, one of your side-hustles is storytelling, right?”

“Yeah, no one takes me up on it here except Quentin, but I tell stories on the road for suppers.”

“I have a _million_ stories!” Eliot squealed. “I could give them to you! For free! As long as you change the names to protect the guilty,” he added with a laugh.

_“Whitespire_ stories?” Cleve said, agog.

“Well, no. I can’t tell you those.” _They wouldn’t be stories so much as prophecy,_ Eliot thought. “But I had a lot of crazy shit happen at school. Just imagine,” he said wondrously, splaying out his hands, “a whole campus full of Magicians, all doing their own spells out on the main lawn, and all the crazy things that happened when they messed up, as they were learning. And the _pranks!_ Oh man,” Eliot giggled, “the Physical Kids pulled the _best_ pranks! Well, _third_ best after the Illusionists and the Psychics, but they don’t count, obviously.”

“And you threw the best parties,” Cleve agreed. “I remember you said that before.”

“We did,” Eliot sighed longingly. _“That_ kingdom I seem to have relinquished to a second year named _Todd,”_ he added with a grimace. “There had better still be orgies. Oh, hey, do you charge more for like, _sexy_ stories? I can give you a whole lot of man-on-man, and some of the other varieties, too-- what I was in the room for, or walked in on.” 

Cleve leaned in and whispered, “Got any man-on-beast? Any species.”

Eliot laughed heartily. “No. We don’t do that, where I’m from.”

“Oh no,” Cleve said dismissively as he straightened up, “here either. Not a soul does that. That would be, like, _crazy.”_

“Hey, I’m not judging,” Eliot said. “It’s just, our animals aren’t sentient, so there’s a consent issue.”

“Right, right,” Cleve nodded knowingly. “I get you. I always forget your Earth animals are dumb.” He looked up at Eliot to see if he would get a response from that.

Eliot smiled warmly. “I tell you what, let’s just call it Brakebills. That was the name of our school.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fun little chapter that led me to tearing out my hair, somehow, over the magic. I am not a supergenius like our boys, so it took me a while. :)
> 
> No, this isn’t the long chapter I teased, but that one’s coming-- the birth of Teddy! Stay tuned, and please comment, I’d love to hear from you!


	41. Wild Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The newest member of Team Queliot arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to allegria23 for talking me through stuff. :)

“We don’t _need_ a timepiece, Q,” Arielle sighed to her husband, who was pacing in front of her. Quentin had become obsessed with their inability to accurately measure the frequency of her contractions-- of which she had three, so far-- to the _second._

She was sitting in Sister Shenna’s old chair in their front yard, her feet propped up on the footstool, cooling herself off with a fan that Nalie had brought as a gift. Nalie was breast-feeding six-month-old Lin on the bench next to her where she sat with Jenna, who was reading one of her romance novels. 

Arielle was trying to distract herself from the dread of the next contraction by reading a letter from Rand. They had been writing to each other a lot in the past few months, as he sorted through his feelings about Eliot and the battle. She herself had felt never more protected and safe, seeing their power in action, but she could understand his ambivalence. Today’s letter was an apology-- he knew that her date was fast approaching and wanted to be there for her, but an elderly parishioner had taken seriously ill and he was caring for the family as they prepared for a likely funeral. He had included a list of nice-sounding names he’d heard in his travels, in case Quentin had frozen up on the task. She wished he was here now, he had such a calming effect on everyone.

Quentin wasn’t the only nervous new father. Eliot was levelling the puzzle floor, _again,_ after spending the last week-- as it became clear the baby would arrive any day-- cleaning and reorganizing the entire house in a flutter she hadn’t seen since their wedding. But he was keeping out of their way, whereas Quentin was pacing directly in front of them. 

“She’s right,” Jenna said without lifting her eyes off her book. “They’re still too far apart and irregular to be measuring. It’s early days, yet.”

 _“Days?!”_ Quentin exclaimed, running his hands through his hair.

“I mean, early _hours,”_ Jenna corrected herself. “It will probably be tonight, sometime.”

“Why don’t you do a puzzle, take your mind off it,” Arielle suggested.

“No!” Eliot said firmly, a reaction he apparently did not plan for, as he rolled his shoulders and lifted his chin, and gave what seemed to Arielle a fairly fake smile. “We’re on a break. It’s a special occasion, after all.”

Quentin looked back at him fondly, and a little sad. _Quest shit, I guess,_ she thought. _At least Q’s not pacing now._ But she could still feel the anxiety coming off of him, which was a problem that would have to be solved before she could relax.

“Husband,” she said, setting the letter in her lap and holding out her hand invitingly. He came over and took it as he kneeled down by her chair. “What do you need right now?”

“What do I-- no, it’s _you,”_ Quentin said, confused. “It’s about what _you_ need.”

“What _I_ need is to chill, and you’re harshing my zen,” Arielle said as kindly as she could. “So let’s deal with you. Tell me, deep down, what do you need?”

“I need…” Quentin said slowly, taking her question seriously. “For this to be over? And for you to be okay, and the baby. And I need… god, I just wish it wasn’t going to _hurt_ you. Jenna said she didn’t have anything good for the pain, and I-- it’s killing me to know that you’re going through all of this and there isn’t anything I can do.”

“I’m not super jazzed about it either,” Arielle admitted, squeezing his hand. “But it comes with the territory, I guess. Ember and Umber? _Super_ dicks to ladies, always have been. I guess this means you’re not going to surprise me with a healing spell that gets me out of it?”

Quentin shook his head sadly. “All my healing stuff is battlefield magic, or mending, which, I mean, this is sort of the opposite? Of mending.”

Arielle winced at the thought of the opposite of mending.

“Sorry,” Quentin said, and kissed her knuckles. “I can make you feel better after? But I can’t make it-- not be like that. I wish I could just-- go on a quest, and bring back some magical thing that would make everything better. I know that’s stupid, but I just keep thinking, it’s _Fillory,_ there has to be _something.”_

“So you need a quest, and I need you to go find something to do,” Arielle mused. “We ought to be able to make something out of that. It’s practically the same thing, already.”

“I have that _Healer’s Guide_ book, I was thinking I could go look for some kind of medicine,” Quentin said, “but I can’t make any sense of the notations, I don’t know what any of them are supposed to do.”

“Plant descriptions?” Jenna asked, looking up from her book. “They write them in shorthand, sometimes. Can I see it?”

“So it _is_ a code!” Quentin exclaimed, and rose to fetch it from his satchel, which was on the tall table they used for puzzle work. He brought it back to Jenna. “Would it also tell you where to find it, is that in the notes, too?” 

“Sometimes, if it’s rare,” Jenna said. “But there’s also the old herbalist’s garden, across the road from Cleve’s wagon, in the woods. There’s still a clearing there, but it’s all overgrown. We pick things there for Cleve to trade. This is a very handy book,” she added, as she paged through it. “The drawings are really good.”

“You should probably keep it,” Quentin said quietly, “it’s yours, really. It’s one of the ones Eliot took from Cleve.”

“Bought! _Bought_ from Cleve,” Eliot called out from the puzzle. “And I’m _still_ paying for it.”

“And if you had given them back, Jenna might have found this two weeks ago,” Quentin retorted.

“But then you wouldn’t have a _quest,”_ Eliot smirked mockingly.

 _Separating them might be a pleasant side effect as well,_ Arielle thought. They were both so jumpy, this could turn into a row, which was decidedly the wrong direction for this to be headed.

“Okay, this, I’ve heard of this, but I didn’t know what it looked like. I think I’ve seen it in the old garden, but I didn’t know what it was.” Jenna stood to share the book with Quentin, open to a drawing of a short plant with tiny yellow flowers. She pointed at the notations. “But according to the book, see, this note here means labor pains. And this means you brew it, in a tea. And this means she should have already been taking it for a week, but it might still help,” she added hopefully.

“I might be able to augment it with a culinary spell,” Eliot offered. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with me leaving? I could send Eliot,” Quentin said. 

“I’ll make my own decisions about going or staying, thank you very much,” Eliot huffed. “And anyway, she’s trying to get _you_ out of the house, remember?”  

Arielle jumped in before Quentin could retort. “So, this is great, we have a plan. We’ll all just take a nice break before the party really gets going, and chill out. Quentin’s going on his nice, peaceful quest to a mysterious garden in the woods, I’m going to write a letter to Rand, Eliot is probably going to tear apart the house and reorganize it six more times--”

“Easy...” Eliot warned. 

“--and we can all gather round and freak out together when it really gets going, okay?” Arielle finished. 

“The garden does sound cool,” Quentin admitted, leaning down to kiss her head, and then her belly. “And if this can help, I’ll do my best to find it. Eliot, are you sure you don’t want to come?”

“I’m going to stay,” Eliot said with a wave of his hand. “I’d like to spell your room for germs again before we give birth in there.”

“Our Happy Homemaker,” Arielle cooed playfully, grateful he had the sense to give Quentin some space.

“Somebody has to be, this place would go Grey Gardens if we left it up to Q.”

“Easy…” Quentin said with a grin. He picked up his satchel and hung it on his shoulder. “Okay, so I’ll be back in a bit. No baby-having until I get back,” he added, as he leaned down to kiss Arielle before setting off towards the village.

And with that problem solved, Arielle settled back in her chair, content. There wasn’t anything in the world that couldn’t be solved by realizing how you really feel, deep down, she firmly believed. “Jenna, would you mind fetching me a paper and quill? I might be able to catch today’s post if I start this letter now.”

 

*

Quentin found the spot fairly easily from the road-- it seemed Cleve and Jenna had worn something of a path-- although getting into it through the underbrush proved more difficult. Once he broke through, he found a clearing, about forty feet across, and around the perimeter he could almost make out raised rectangular shapes through the lush tangle of flowers and plants, which he guessed were the old flower beds. _Everything keeps growing in Fillory,_ he thought. Finding a short plant in this mess was going to be a bigger job than he thought. Across the clearing from where he entered, the edge of the wood was dominated by a huge oak tree, whose shade had discouraged plant growth in its vicinity. He’d check there last.

He took the book out of his satchel and flipped it open to the picture of the tiny yellow flowers, and then began to systematically work his way counterclockwise around the old garden. It was quiet, and though the garden was beautiful in its lush overgrowth, the task itself was boring. He was going to need a distraction from his distraction, as this was not helping much with his fears of impending fatherhood, for which he felt in no way ready. He hadn’t even finished coming up with a name.

“Theodore, mmmm, Coldwater-Waugh,” he muttered to himself, hoping the sound of it would trigger an idea. “Two syllables? _The-o-dore, MM-mmm, Cold-wa-ter-Waugh.”_ He’d never hear the end of it if Eliot didn’t think the name rolled properly off the tongue.

Theodore was for his father. He had chosen it as the wedding approached, when he wished so desperately for his dad to be there he couldn’t even think about it. This was an Eliot trick he had picked up over the years-- to so completely ignore something that it may as well not even exist, which Quentin called his Vault. Quentin himself wasn’t usually so deft at this-- he still found himself talking to an imaginary Julia while he laid tiles alone-- but he understood it better now. The Vault came from pain, like magic. But it wasn’t foolproof. Eliot couldn’t pull it off for Margo, which was understandable. She was _Margo,_ a force of nature all unto herself, not subject to the normal laws of-- _anything,_ really, and certainly not the weak forces of cognitive dissonance. And Quentin’s own longing for his father, he realized weeks later, had leaked out too-- not just in the name he chose for his son, but also when he kept insisting on a Brooklyn wedding, so his father could attend.

Quentin had decided on the second name, _Eliot,_ when he was lacing up his corset. Eliot had all the qualities Quentin would want for their son, confidence and loyalty and bravery, among many others. But in that room, on that day, moaning over his torn corset, he was the very _best_ part of him-- ridiculous. That sealed the deal. Life wasn’t worth living if you couldn’t be ridiculous. And being willing to risk that opens so many doors to ideas you would have never thought of, options you’d never dream to try, color and joy and magic. _Eliot._

And then Eliot had insisted that he didn’t use his name, which had left him stumped. 

Eliot’s reasoning had, admittedly, been centered around Eliot as a _first_ name-- _there would be two of us, and we’d end up calling him Ellie--_ but using it as a second name, Quentin realized, would leave most of the name as _Eliot Coldwater-Waugh,_ and given Eliot’s reaction the only time he’d ever said _that_ out loud, he thought that might hit a little too close to the bone. _Brooklyn,_ Eliot would say at the very least, or he might even outright reject it.

Arielle couldn’t remember her father’s name. She was too little when her father disappeared, and she only knew him as Papa. As she had been raised by _a gaggle of geese,_ as she often called The Sisters, she had no other names to contribute. 

His own middle name, Makepeace, was already a source of teasing from Eliot, so that was out. _Theodore Quentin_ sounded weird, like hearing his grandmother tick off who was coming to Thanksgiving. _“Theodore, Quentin, Aunt Rosalie, Cousin Susan…”_ He smiled. He had so often avoided family dinners, but he wished he could go to one now, his Mosaic family in tow. His dad would love Arielle. Susan would hate Eliot for being gay, and Arielle would hate Susan for _that,_ which would be hilarious. She might even put her Trump-loving, homophobic ass in her place, right there at the dinner table. _Or even better,_ he thought with a grin, _team up with Eliot to take her down, and leave a smouldering crater where her chair was._

He had made his way halfway around the clearing, and reached the oak tree. He’d meant to save it for last, as there didn’t seem to be much here, but then he noticed there were large roots around the base of the huge oak that hid all manner of foliage. If the tiny yellow flowers were here, they’d be easier to find than slogging through another overgrown flower bed. He leaned over and ran his hands over the short plants, hoping to expose smaller ones beneath. Placing his hand on the trunk for balance, he took a step forward--

\--and heard a _snap--_

\--and cried out when it felt like something wooden had snapped shut on his ankle--

\--and saw a golden glow around his foot--

\--and fired off a spell at it without thinking, that sparked and ricocheted off away from him when it hit--

\--and he realized he was trapped.

He threw up a shield with his heart in his throat, scanning the woods around him for the Frustrated Puzzle Man. Nothing. He did a few locator spells, but he didn’t have any more luck than he had after the wedding. _Should have worked up something besides Tillinger’s,_ he chastised himself. _It still doesn’t work._ Or, The Stranger just wasn’t here.

Quentin tried to lift his foot, but it was firmly attached to the ground. He tried to slide it, and found he had some play there, but it stopped him within a few feet. He did a tut and moved his fingers into a box and looked through it. Lenses would be better, but even with this he could see a faint outline of a sort of rope or chain leading into-- nothingness. He wasn’t leaving this clearing until he got the thing off.

He needed to get a rabbit to Eliot, but it couldn’t come through the shield. He would have to drop it. He crouched down to be in position, so he could let it down as briefly as possible.

In that crouch, Quentin got a good look at the glowing spell around his foot for the first time. It was a taco-shaped glowing cage, like a bear trap, caught around his ankle with his foot inside. The spellwork was in curls, instead of in straight lines as their Earth spells manifested. _Fillorian._ In the middle of the swirling curly-q’s was a large letter C, and when he squinted at the glow, he could make out four more letters. _Cleve._  

“Oh, come _on,”_ he groaned. _“Fuck.”_

Quentin took down his shield. He didn’t need protection from the town’s Procurer of Relaxation and Entertainment. “Hey, anyone there? I need a rabbit.” A small gray rabbit hopped out of the bushes and came over to him. “To Cleve,” he sighed, “I’m in your trap.” 

He was going to call for a second rabbit to elaborate, but to his surprise, the little bunny did not disappear with his message, but rather, spoke.

“The user has refused rabbit service. Please try again later.”

“I’m sorry, what now?” Quentin said, his brow furrowed. 

“The user has refused rabbit service. Please try again later.”

Quentin could only stare at it for several seconds. “Okay, first, how are you saying more than four words?”

“I can _say_ as many words as I like, sir, but I can only _remember_ four at a time,” the rabbit said, a touch of annoyance in his little gravelly voice. “Four is the safest statistical limit to ensure accuracy for our users.”

“Okay...” Quentin said slowly. He had so many questions, but he also had his foot caught in a magical bear trap while his wife was in labor, which took priority. “And Cleve has refused service? Why? And… how?”

“A user may request refusal of service if the user does not wish to be found,” the rabbit said disdainfully, as if Quentin should know. “Would you like to request refusal of service?” 

“No, I, um-- did Cleve say how long he would be out of touch?”

“The user has refused rabbit service. Please try again later,” the rabbit said rotely, clearly bored of this.

“Right.” Quentin sat down on his free foot, cradling his bent knee above the trap. “Is there any way to override it, for emergencies?”

“The user has refused rabbit service. _Please try again later,”_ the rabbit repeated with irritation. “Does the gentleman require further services?” it added, in a tone that suggested it would be preferable, in the rabbit’s opinion, if the gentleman did not.

“Aarrgghh!” Quentin cried out, and slammed his fists into the dirt. _“Fuck!”_

“There is no need to be _rude,_ sir,” the rabbit retorted. “Thank you for your patronage,” it added sarcastically, and began to hop away. 

Diplomacy was required. Quentin wished he was carrying carrots, as Mama had suggested months ago. “Wait! I’m sorry, that wasn’t aimed at you, that was for Cleve.”

The rabbit stopped and turned. “The user has--” it began impatiently.

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Quentin cut him off. “I need to send a message to someone else, then, if that’s alright? With you?”

The rabbit hopped back to him, and seemed to be sizing him up for an uncomfortably long silence. “Please proceed with your message,” it said flatly.

“Um, I have two messages, please?” Quentin said in his most friendly voice, and another rabbit hopped out of the woods, as if it had been waiting for this. He really needed to know more about how this worked. “Um, to Eliot, Q trapped, come help.” The first rabbit vanished, and Quentin turned his focus to the second. “To Eliot. No danger, just stuck,” he told it, and sent it on its way.

The first rabbit reappeared. “Don’t scare us like,” it began, and the second reappeared to finish the message. “That. On our way.”

Quentin stood and limped over to the oak tree and slid down to sit against it. He banged his head back on it, not entirely gently, in a steady rhythm. “Fuck. My. Life.”

 

It was ten minutes before he heard Eliot call out from the path. “Q? Baby? Marco?”

“Polo!” Quentin called back. “Over here. I’m okay, just-- stuck.”

 _“Please_ tell me it’s in a hole, like Winnie the Pooh,” Eliot said. He broke through the trees, and then turned back and opened a hole in the brush to lead a heavily-breathing Arielle through, Jenna following behind.

“Nope, just a magic trap,” Quentin sighed. “Courtesy of your friend.”

“Which friend?” Eliot asked, confused. “Sorry we took so long, we’re traveling slow today,” he added, as they led a waddling Arielle into the clearing, “because _someone_ insisted on coming along instead of staying with Nalie and Lin.”

“Our Q is trapped, El, I wasn’t going to wait for word,” Arielle snapped. “Husband, what _happened?”_ she cried, and crossed the clearing to crouch next to him. When she realized that wasn’t really feasible in her condition, she stroked his hair, instead.

“Well, I had one job...” Quentin said sheepishly, rubbing her calf with his hand.

“I’m _so_ sorry I sent you out here,” Arielle said. “I never meant for this to happen!”

“Oh, it’s not _your_ fault,” Quentin grumbled.

Eliot crouched down next to the trap to inspect it. “Ah, my _friend._ This is _Cleve’s!_ God- _damn_ it,” he added in frustration, “I _told_ him to stop using magic!”

“And how did _that_ work out?” Quentin groused. “I told _you,_ Eliot, if you come down hard on him, he’ll only hide it from you.” 

“I _didn’t_ come down hard on him! I just scared him straight, that’s all,” Eliot said defensively.

“Mm-hmm,” Quentin agreed, dripping with sarcasm. “And now we know how _that_ worked out, he ended up catching _me_ in a magic trap on the day Ari is giving birth to our baby, so thanks a lot for _that.”_

“Okay, you’ve treed him, Q,” Arielle said kindly, “now let him down. We can fight about it later, we have bigger fish to fry right now.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I seem to have all the time in the world,” Quentin said airily, waving a hand. “I assume it will take Cleve to undo it, and he’s AWOL, and I can’t send a rabbit, they won’t go.”

“Won’t--” Eliot began.

“Try it yourself.”

Eliot called for a rabbit. “To Cleve. Get the fuck home.”

The new rabbit that arrived sounded as bored as the first one. “The user has refused rabbit service. Please try again later.”

Eliot furrowed his brow and looked questioningly at Quentin. 

“Told you. Apparently there’s all kinds of terms of service. Oh, and also, they can talk.”

“Of course they can talk,” Eliot said.

“No, I mean-- nevermind, we can get into it later.” Quentin turned to the waiting rabbit. “You can go, thanks.”

“Thank you for your patronage,” the rabbit muttered, and hopped away.

“See? That. They talk customer-service-speak,” Quentin explained, and looked up at Jenna. “Any idea when Cleve will be back?”

“No,” Jenna said, “I mean, he cut the last trip short because of-- well, fighting with you, Eliot, sorry, but it’s true. So he had to make another run. He’s been gone a few days already, he should be back any day?” she added hopefully.

Quentin banged his head back on the tree again. “Any. day.”

Arielle stroked his hair and rubbed the spot where he’d hit the tree. “Q, honey, don’t. Eliot will figure something out, won’t you, El?”

“Absolutely. Q, we’re going to get you out of this,” Eliot reassured him. “I’ll make it right, I promise.” He looked up at Jenna. “Do you know what kind of trap this is, what it does, what it’s for?”

“Well, he wanted to catch a real magical creature,” Jenna explained, “for the wagon stand, you know, to have an attraction people would come see. I know,” she added to their collective frowns, “I was trying to talk him out of it, I thought it was, you know, cruel, to the creature--”

“I can attest to that,” Quentin grumbled.

 _“And_ he fucked it up,” Eliot sighed, “as _predicted,_ and caught someone who has magic _in_ them. Managed to get his _name_ on it, sure, but not set the fucking _filters_ right. God- _damn_ it, Cleve...”

Arielle groaned and put a hand to her belly. “Here it comes,” she gasped.

“The baby?!” Quentin exclaimed, scrambling to stand.

“No, another-- _oh gods--_ contraction,” she said, and leaned against the tree for support.

“Did you find the medicine, Q?” Eliot asked worriedly as he rubbed her back.

“Not yet, not before--” Quentin gestured to his foot, “but I only searched half. This side,” he said, pointing, “from where we came in around to the tree.”

Jenna and Eliot split up to search the other side of the clearing, while Quentin got a taste of Arielle’s labor pains by her squeeze on his hand. They put their breathing practice to work, the quick-quick-quick-slow he’d seen on tv, which he hoped was based on something real. 

“Ahoy!” Eliot cried out, straightening up with a handful of flowers in his raised fist. “Avast, ye mateys, I’ve found the treasure!” he added in a pirate’s snarl, which even Arielle couldn’t help but laugh at.

“I need to get you back home,” Jenna said to Arielle, “so I can brew this up and give it to you.”

“No, it’s passing, I can stay for a bit,” Arielle insisted.

“Midwife’s orders,” Eliot said. “Back home with you. We’ll figure this out before The Kid makes his grand entrance, I promise. I’m going to stay and try to fix this, but if we can’t right away I’ll be home to spell the tea, at least.” 

Quentin put his arms around his wife and kissed her cheek. “We’ll think of something. You take care of you, and our baby. That’s the most important thing.”

“I know, I just-- I hate leaving you here like this,” Arielle said mournfully.

“In the face of the chaos of the gods, remember?” Quentin gave her a smile. “I’ll be fine. Go.”

“I can send Mama,” Jenna offered, “when we go past the tavern. Maybe she’ll know what to do?” 

“Maybe. She knows everything,” Quentin sighed, and sank back down to his spot under the tree.

When they had gone, Eliot crouched down by Quentin’s foot. “Q, I’m sorry, I’m _really_ sorry.”

“I know, El. It’s not-- maybe this was here before all that, and he just forgot? Or something. Can we just-- work on trying to get it off? I blasted it with Ferguson’s Third, but it just bounced off.”

“Well, that should have done it,” Eliot agreed, looking over the trap with his own boxed fingers. “I don’t know, with what we’ve been learning of Fillorian magic, I don’t even know how he was able to spell up a trap.” He leaned down to Quentin’s foot and passed his fingers over the spellwork. “Oh, there’s--” He knocked on the trap, which gave a wooden thump, then worked a finger in between the curls of spellwork. “There’s something-- in there-- it feels like-- a coconut shell, sort of? Wooden, but furry. I don’t know what it is.”

“Must be where the nexus is, though.” Quentin said, and leaned forward to get a better look. “He spelled that thing and turned it into-- this.”

“I wonder if he got more books. This wasn’t in any of the ones I took, was it?”

“No, I’ve been reading and rereading them, no traps.”

“Hear you’ve found yourself in a spot of trouble,” Mama said cheerfully as she came  through the hole in the brush and entered the clearing. She looked around and shook her head. “Oh my, this has really grown over. Myron would be sad to see this.” She came over to the tree and squatted down. “Well, son, this is a pickle.”

“Or a coconut,” Quentin sighed. “It’s Cleve’s.”

Mama nodded. “That figures. Probably trying to catch something for his shop. He forgot we got two magical creatures living right here among us. And I guess he can undo it, but he’s out on the road. Can’t rabbit him?”

Quentin shook his head, and wondered what she knew about rabbits.

“Any idea when he’ll be back?” she said. 

“No,” Eliot said, “Jenna didn’t even know.”

“Hmm,” Mama said. “And you two Magicians can’t do anything about it, I suppose, or you would have already.” She sat back on her butt and crossed her legs. “Well, you’d better go back, El, and power up that tea before her contractions really start comin’. I’ll stay with Quentin.” 

“Q, baby,” Eliot said, as he leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “We’re going to figure this out, I promise. I’ll look at the books while I’m back at the house.” 

“And my notebooks,” Quentin said. “The stack on my workbench. I’ve been making notes. I can’t think of anything that pertained to this, but--”

Eliot nodded. “Maybe I’ll find something in your chicken scratch math. Okay, I’ll do that. You just-- sit tight, I guess?” he added helplessly, and hesitated, clearly pained. “I hate leaving you.”

“I got him,” Mama said. “You go and find the solution, and take care of Ari.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Love you,” Eliot said, and patted Quentin’s knee as he rose.

“Love you,” Quentin said after him. He hated to watch him leave, too, and go back to Arielle, where he should be. With both of them.

“I brought cards,” Mama said. She fished a deck out of her pocket. “Got any new tricks?”

 _A distraction from my distraction,_ he thought gratefully. Mama always knew what he needed. “No,” he smiled, accepting the cards she held out, “but I could enchant the deck.”

“Oh yeah?” Mama said with a sly grin.

“It’s my new project, I’m studying Fillorian magic.”

“Isn’t all magic the same?”

“I mean, yes? And no,” Quentin said, letting himself get excited about his new obsession and pushing away his worries. “For one thing, there’s the magic of Fillory, which comes from the Wellspring, but then there’s magical creatures? Who have their own, I think. But yes, the Wellspring magic seems to be the same as ours. The thing is, the spells…”

They talked for over an hour-- Quentin talking and Mama listening and nodding, for the most part-- about how enchantments seemed like a good place to start his research, and then about names for the baby, while Quentin absentmindedly shuffled the deck in his hands.

Rabbits appeared, informing them that Arielle was doing well, the tea was helping, and Eliot was having no luck but was still on the case. Quentin thanked them profusely, as he was pretty sure they would need their services a lot today. _Or for many days. Fucking Cleve._

Mama laughed. “You tryin’ to get a date?”

“What? Oh, well. I pissed one off earlier,” Quentin said. “I feel like such a jackass. I’ve just been grabbing rabbits and poofing them away for years now, without thinking of them as anything but text messaging devices.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” she shrugged. “For one thing, they’re used to it, we all kinda do that. And for another thing, they tend to be annoying, snooty little bastards once you do get to talkin’ to them. I don’t care that they’ve talked to kings, so have I,” she laughed, “and _they’re_ just taking messages.”

Quentin narrowed his eyes at her playfully. She subtweeted at them like this all the time. But she never really expected them to take the bait, so he didn’t. “So what do you know about how they work?”

“I know Cleve has a book on it, it was dropped off at the tavern in the post. You should ask him if you can borrow it. I’d suck up to him like you did that rabbit, though,” she added. “I take it books and Magicians are touchy subjects these days.”

“Eliot said they made up? But this whole trap shit might be a setback,” Quentin sighed, and banged his head back on the tree again.

But before his worries could take hold, Wicklet and Tassie arrived in the clearing. “Hey-ya Q-ball,” Wicklet called out. “Heard you needed company.” 

“I put out a call for reinforcements before I left the tavern,” Mama explained. “And partners for cards.”

“Since Eliot’s not here, I guess I don’t need to give the no-looking-at-the-dogs-cards speech,” Tassie laughed as they joined their friends under the oak. “You two, I trust.” 

“Just don’t let him play with his glasses on,” Quentin said. “He can’t make out the cards laid out in front of you from a distance.”

“Oh…” both dogs said in unison as they looked at each other.

“We’ve wondered about that!” Wicklet explained. “He seems nearsighted but since he always insisted on his glasses for cards, we couldn’t figure it out! That sly fox,” he added lovingly, shaking his head.

“Oops,” Quentin laughed. “I guess I gave away the secret. I’ll pay for that, I’m sure. Have you heard from Wren?”

“We get letters, thanks to MJ. It’s so much better than rabbits,” Tassie said. “I can’t quite follow what he’s up to but he sounds optimistic. They sound happy. MJ’s really enjoying working with Seren.”

“Yeah, the first of the replacement chairs arrived, he sent a note saying she’d done them all herself, sounded proud,” Mama said. “So, what’re you in the mood for Q, spades or poker?”

He chose spades-- given how his luck was running today, he assumed he’d lose his shirt in poker-- and they played cards for a couple of hours, getting three more sets of rabbits during that time, with the same information-- Arielle’s labor was progressing well, it would be hours yet, and Eliot still hadn’t found a way out of the trap.

As the afternoon wore on and the businesses closed for the day, more villagers came to the clearing to keep Quentin company. Hund brought his lute for a singalong, and Gana and Helyn brought covered dishes and quilts for everyone to sit on. JP made a campfire, and soon a happy little party had sprung up all around him. Quentin did card tricks for them, which always delighted his friends even though they’d seen them all before. JP told a story, Mama told some jokes, and when the twins arrived, they showed off a new dance move they’d invented, as Hund played Taylor Swift on the lute thanks to Quentin’s spell. 

Rabbit updates continued to arrive, and as Arielle’s labor continued to progress, Quentin’s Vault couldn’t contain his anxiety anymore. He called for rabbit after rabbit, until he found one who was pleasant and slightly daft, and willing to stay by his side for twenty straight minutes, repeatedly giving the denial of service response-- until even the nice rabbit’s patience wore out and it announced it had other things to do, and hopped back into the trees.

At sunset, Eliot arrived, floating a keg from the tavern in front of him. “Party supplies, Assembled Villagers!” he announced. He set it down and swung a sack of tankards off his shoulder, then handed off a tap and a mallet to Mama.

This brought cheers from the crowd, and Hund and Gish came forward to drag the keg to a good spot, while the others took mugs and gathered around, waiting for Mama to tap it.

“How’s Ari?” Quentin asked Eliot eagerly.

“Good,” Eliot said, crouching down next to him, “but the contractions are coming faster. Jenna says we’re still not close, but we’ve got to get you out of here.” He leaned over Quentin’s foot as he had before. “There’s nothing in the books or your notes about breaking someone else’s locked enchantment, but I was thinking about trying to transfigure the gourd or whatever it is into something else, maybe that would crack off the spell?”

“Maybe, but the visualization of the spell looks so tightly wound, I’m sure it has defenses. I mean, he’d expect a magical creature to try to magic it off, wouldn’t he? And that might be a booby trap, now that I think about it.”

“Okay,” Eliot sighed, rubbing at his scruff. “Let’s think about this. Animal traps back home would have release levers, but of course this doesn’t, because the prey is sentient, and they’d let themselves out. He’d need a spell key that only he knows. And I can’t pry it open with my telekinesis, I played around with the book you’d enchanted to only open for you, and I could kind of get a hook in between the covers but when I pulled at it, it just moved in one direction, I couldn’t pry it apart.”

“Well, then I’m definitely putting it on my journal,” Quentin chuckled. “Okay... Well, I do know a spell that does a hook like that? It’s for retrieving things from across the room, I saw Penny do it enough that I worked it out. I don’t know if it has any strength, I use it mostly for lightweight things like pens? But… this place where my ankle goes in, if we both hooked into it and pulled in opposite directions, maybe? What Cleve _wouldn’t_ expect is for two magical creatures to be working on it together.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Eliot shrugged. “Unless it does. Color system, okay, baby? You let me know if it feels even a little bit like it’s fighting back.”

“Okay,” Quentin nodded, and gave a quick tut. Eliot held his foot down for leverage and each of them hooked their magic into the hole, and began to pull.

“You good?” Eliot said.

“Still green, and look, it’s working!” The hole around Quentin’s ankle was definitely larger, and cracks were appearing down the length of the taco shape. When he had enough room to maneuver, he attempted to slide out his foot.

“Red!” Eliot cried, and Quentin stopped. “Or orange, technically.” The trap’s spellwork, which had been golden, had turned a deeper, angrier color. “I don’t think it likes you taking your foot out.” He slipped two long fingers into the gap and the color brightened again, though his face darkened in response. 

“What do you think it means?” Quentin asked. 

“I think it means,” Eliot sighed, “that now that it’s sprung, and has a certain amount of magical whatever in it, it’s not going to like having less than that.”

Quentin could feel his panic rising. “What does _that_ mean?”

Eliot rolled his shoulders, and put on his Team Leader face. “It means-- that we are going to pull this open enough to slide your foot out and my foot in at the same time.”

“Eliot, no!” Quentin protested.

“Baby Q,” Eliot said patiently, as he kicked off his shoe, “Baby X is going to be born any time now--”

“Eliot, that is stupid,” Quentin said with irritation. “I’m not going to let you trap yourself, _on purpose._ This thing hurts, I’ll be honest. And you couldn’t leave this tree. I had to actually _announce,_ to _everyone,_ that I had to pee so I could get behind it as much as I could and have everyone turn away.”

“Quentin Makepeace Coldwater-Waugh,” Eliot grinned. “A little public exhibition? It’s like you don’t know me at _all._ Margo would charge them all to watch, we’ve done it before, for pub money,” he added with a wink. “And besides, the whole town is here having quite the rager, for them. I’m _not_ going to let you ground me from this party, _Dad,”_ he pouted playfully. “If I want to stay, I can stay.”

Quentin couldn’t help but laugh, and couldn’t help his need to be with Arielle. “Okay, I mean, if you’re sure?” He shook his head. “This still seems crazy, intentionally trapping yourself.”

“It’s not a trap if I _want_ to be in it,” Eliot said dismissively. “Then it’s just-- glittery footwear. In fact, now I wish there were two.”

“See if you say the same when you need to pee,” Quentin shrugged. “Alright, we can try it.”

“Speaking of which?” Eliot smiled. “Why don’t I excuse myself real quick before we start this, if I’m not going to make beer money from it.”

“I’ll be here,” Quentin sighed, and leaned his head against the tree.  

After a few minutes, Mama came over with a mug of beer. “Wet your whistle?”

“Save it for Eliot. We’re switching places.”

“Oh yeah?” Mama said, intrigued. “So you got it open enough to get out, but it needs magic in it, now. Can’t enchant something and stick it in there?”

Quentin shook his head. “It needs a magical creature. I mean, I might be able to put a rabbit inside instead? But that would really put us on their shit list. And Eliot’s volunteered to stay.”

“Well, he hates to miss a good party,” Mama said. 

 

*

With some guidance from the locals, Eliot found the place people had pushed away the undergrowth through the trees for a latrine area. There was a short little path that curved away to a small opening in the trees. Eliot did a tut he used on their outhouse at home and the air quality improved considerably.

He really didn’t want to put his foot in the trap. He knew he _must,_ and he knew he _would,_ but he shouldn’t have given himself time to think about it, alone. He leaned on one foot to wiggle his ankle. _Left or right? Right, I guess, so I don’t have to lean on my hip too much._ He sighed. How did they always get into these messes? _Fucking Cleve, he should have listened._

He fastened his pants, spelled his hands clean, and took a deep breath. _Game face,_ he thought, and rolled his shoulders. The important thing was to make Quentin feel like this all perfectly normal. _And anyway, it's a party, not a prison._

As he approached the tree, he heard Mama say, “Well, he hates to miss a good party.”

“Especially impromptu ones in the woods,” Eliot agreed cheerfully. “Saw a man about a horse, didn’t like his prices. You ready to do this, now?”

Quentin nodded, and rose to begin the process. This time as they hooked their magic in, the villagers gathered around to watch. They pulled, and the hole began to open again. Then Quentin’s spell slipped off and the trap banged back on his ankle again. “Fuck!” he cried out.

“Reinforce it with Popper 27 in the third position,” Eliot suggested. Quentin redid the tut and they tried again.

This time they had a better grip, and the trap began to pull apart. When they had enough room, Eliot pointed his toes and slipped his foot in as Quentin’s came out. When the exchange was complete, the trap banged shut on Eliot’s ankle. _“Fuck_ me, _god,_ that hurts,” Eliot said, swallowing back a string of curses. 

The crowd, however, was thrilled, and Gish led a chorus of three cheers for the Magicians.

“I told you,” Quentin said worriedly, ignoring them. “Are you _sure,_ sure? We can put me back in it, I’m used to it, now.”

“Baby Q, I am right as rain,” Eliot said grandly. He took the mug Mama handed him and walked-- sliding his trapped foot-- back to the tree and took Quentin’s previous spot, sitting with his back against it. “Never better. This is legitimately the prettiest shoe I’ve worn in Fillory. Soon, they will be all the rage. Now, go to Ari, she needs you.”

“Eliot--”

“Q, go,” he said in his Team Leader Voice.

“Okay, okay,” Quentin said, leaning over to kiss his head. “Love you. I mean it.”

“Love you,” Eliot said, taking his hand and squeezing it. “Now get out of here before I have to start throwing rocks at you like [ Old Yeller.” ](https://getyarn.io/yarn-clip/8569575f-1708-449a-b9df-12e042e49649)

“Don’t let Wick and Tass hear you talk like that,” Quentin laughed, and made his way past the revelers to the exit.

Eliot waited for Quentin to leave the clearing before addressing his friends. “Everyone, gather ‘round. Now I understand that you poor people have had a very dull host this whole day, but _I’m_ here now, chickens, and we are gonna get this party _started!”_  

The crowd cheered at this, and someone started them off on the chorus of “We Are The Champions”, which kicked off the second, more rowdy phase of the gathering.

Eliot held court from his seat under the tree, getting all the latest town gossip and making them cry with laughter with stories from Brakebills he’d been pulling up from his memory for Cleve. _He deserves to lose a little inventory over this,_ he thought.

This went on for a couple of hours, during which time Eliot tried to reach Cleve in vain a few more times, and rabbits came from the Mosaic, informing him that Arielle was still well, and still pregnant.

Once the dancing got underway, Eliot was left alone under the tree, but after a while, Mama joined him.

“Sorry you can’t _bust a move,”_   Mama said, still breathing hard from the galliard she’d done with Gish. “How’s the foot?”

“Sore, or my ankle is, anyway,” Eliot said, readjusting his legs and sliding his foot closer. “But tolerable. Party’s fun, though. You can really cut a rug.”

“I still know a few tricks,” Mama laughed. “I’m really proud of you, son,” she added thoughtfully. “Don’t know that the Eliot I first met would stick his foot in a trap on purpose.”

“I was decidedly risk-averse, that’s true,” Eliot agreed. “Margo made me promise to be smart, instead of brave. It’s one of the last things she said to me. _The difference between a hero and a moron is one dumb decision.”_

“She’s a smart girl,” Mama said thoughtfully. He wondered if she was thinking about her husband. “So, what changed?”

Eliot shrugged. “Did anything? It’s not really that brave, being magically stuck at a party. And the smart thing to do for Quentin was to go back, so.”

“Oh, you’ve definitely changed,” Mama said. “For one thing, as far as I can tell, you haven’t considered that you can’t leave Fillory, if you can’t leave this clearing.”

Eliot stopped cold, disoriented. How had that never crossed his mind? He shook it off. “It’s not _forever,_ Cleve will be back eventually, and we’re not working on the puzzle now. Paternity leave.” In fact, he had called a work stoppage some days ago. It hurt too much to think he might solve it and never see the boy arrive, and Quentin seemed to agree, because he did not protest. “I’ll be out of this long before that’s an issue,” he added with a wave of his hand, and changed the subject. “Hey--” he said, leaning into her conspiratorially, “has he told you what name he chose?”

“I might have let him bounce some ideas off of me,” Mama said slyly. “But I’ll never tell. You’ll find out, and soon, I’d imagine, it’s getting late.”

Eliot rubbed his face and called for another rabbit. “To Cleve, Fuck you. Get here.” 

“The user has refused--”

“Yes, thank you,” Eliot said, suddenly very tired. 

He wasn’t the only one. Most of the people at the party had worked a full day before arriving. They began to settle down in groups on the quilts to chat, and some had already stretched out to sleep. The party was morphing into a campout.

Nalie arrived around midnight. “I’m very pleased to say, the birth was a success all around, the baby is born, it’s a boy, and he’s healthy, and just perfect!” This announcement was welcomed, but the response was tempered, to avoid waking those that had fallen asleep. She picked her way across the blankets and sleeping bodies to where Eliot was trapped under the tree. “I’m sorry you weren’t there.”

“How’s Ari? Did she make it?” The second question popped out of him without him without him realizing that box was even in his heart, the idea that she might die today, and he’d never see her again.

“Oh, honey, yes, she’s fine, just fine,” Nalie reassured him. “It took a lot out of her, of course, but otherwise she’s healthy and safe and happy. She said to tell you, you aren’t allowed to skip the next one for a party, but you’re the best, ahem, _baby daddy?--_ is that right?” Eliot nodded, so she continued, “in the world for doing so today.”

“It was my pleasure,” Eliot said grandly, his hand on his heart. “Although, about the next one, I suppose it depends on how good the party is,” he giggled playfully. He felt giddy and relieved and more pissed off than ever at Cleve. “You should go home and spend time with your own baby.”

“I do want to now, yes,” Nalie admitted. “He’s gotten so big compared to a newborn, I realized tonight when I held yours. It goes by so fast, you just will not believe it.”

“Guess I’ll find out,” Eliot said, and patted her foot. “Go, I’ll be fine.”

“Quentin said he’d come by after a bit to check on you. Good night, Eliot.”

“Good night,” Eliot sighed, and watched her do the one thing he wished more than anything that he could do-- walk out of the clearing.

 

Another hour passed, and the clearing was quiet, finally, as everyone had fallen asleep. Eliot was drifting off as well, with no one to talk to, when Quentin appeared in the hole in the trees, carrying a bundle in his arms.

“Eliot, are you awake?” he said quietly.

“Yes-- is Ari okay?”

“She’s good, she’s sleeping.”

“Is that--”

Quentin made his way to him and kneeled down. “Eliot Waugh-- Papa-- let me introduce you to your son, Theodore Rupert Coldwater-Waugh.” 

Eliot’s mouth was too dry to form words-- none of which were coming to him, anyway-- and he accepted the little swaddled bundle that Quentin held out in his arms. 

In the glow of the campfire, he could make out a tiny face, and tiny hands. He leaned his head down a little, for a closer look, and one of the tiny hands grabbed at his curls.

“I’d like to call him Teddy,” Quentin whispered as he settled down next to Eliot, resting his head on the taller man’s shoulder. 

“Teddy Bear,” Eliot croaked out in a whisper. Teddy yanked on the curl in his tiny fist. “Ha, I think he likes that.” Eliot liked the firm grip on his hair, the way Teddy seemed to be clinging to him, but it also meant he had to keep his neck craned at an uncomfortable angle, so he disentangled the little hand and tucked his hair behind his ear. “Theodore is for your father?” He shifted so that he could put his free arm around Quentin, pulling him into his chest so they could both look down on Teddy’s face.

“Yeah,” Quentin said, and yawned mightily. “Sorry, it’s just been--”

“A day. I know,” Eliot said, giving him a squeeze. “And Rupert is for... Chatwin?”

“Mm-hmm,” Quentin nodded against his chest. “You said no Eliot, so the closest thing was Rupert. High King of Fillory, like you, and a hero, and a gifted Magician. Not as handsome,” he added, smiling up at Eliot, “or as ridiculous, but it was the closest I could get.”

Eliot’s heart was already in his throat, but this clenched it further. “Rupert is a pretty ridiculous name,” he managed to get out.

“That’s what I thought, too,” Quentin said, snuggling back down onto Eliot’s chest, and yawned again. “It covered that requirement.”

“And he’s beautiful all by himself, he doesn’t need a name for that.” Eliot didn’t have a hand free, so he crooked his elbow higher so he could nuzzle the silky fuzz of hair with his cheek. “Your hair and her eyes,” he cooed softly.

“Don’t know about the eyes yet, he hasn’t really opened them.”

“That will come,” Eliot reassured him. “He can’t really see right now anyway, it will take a few weeks. How are you doing?”

“Exhausted. And also-- El, I didn’t know?” Quentin added softly. “It was going to feel like this...”

Eliot squeezed his arm around him. He hadn’t, either. _Unknown unknowns._ Maybe because he never got to hold his daughter like this, or maybe because this child-- this _family--_ meant more to him than any other bonds he’d ever formed. Maybe because it was Quentin’s.

 

_He lay on the wall, smoking to pass the time, fiddling with the card in his hand. Quentin Coldwater. He didn’t know why that name made him feel so strange, so at home, so steady and nervous all at the same time. Why it felt like an adventure was about to begin. Fogg had given him such an odd look when he handed him the card, like he knew something Eliot didn’t. It was just another first year, a recent Muggle who was just coming to grips with the magical world. But then, why did it feel so-- momentous?_

_And then the pretty boy in the cheap tweed jacket came bursting through the trees, his puppy dog eyes filled with wonder, and Eliot still didn’t know why this felt so important, but he knew-- he_ knew-- _that what he had been waiting for had finally begun._

_“Hi. I’m Eliot.”_

 

And now, six years later, he sat under a tree in Fillory, surrounded by all of his new friends, with Quentin Coldwater-- who had begun to snore softly-- folded into one of his arms, and _their son,_ Theodore Rupert Coldwater-Waugh, cradled in the other.

Eliot hung his head, and wept.

He cried for all the trauma he had endured to get here, for Margo who wasn’t here to see it, and because he was exhausted and wrung out and grateful and full of love.

But mostly, he sobbed uncontrollably because he felt something he’d never felt before, not like this, in a giant tidal wave.

He felt _forgiven._  

After all the mistakes, all the selfishness and self-absorption, all the shortcuts and short-sighted cruelty, all the blood and the bodies, all the terrible, monstrous things he’d ever done-- he got this, this miracle, this family. He didn’t believe in a capital-G God, or even that any mystical force gave a fuck about him, until right now. Because suddenly, it felt like the Eye of Universe itself had looked down on him and said, _I forgive you for everything, and I will show you mercy, and give you redemption._

Teddy fussed a tiny cry in response to Eliot’s emotional tumult, jerking up his arms, and grabbed his hair again, and pulled. Eliot looked down at him, and though his vision was blurred with tears, he could see two dark spots, Teddy’s eyes, boring into him, a frown on his tiny face that looked just like Quentin when he said things like, _don’t talk that way about yourself._

“Don’t look at me like that,” Eliot chuckled softly. “This hardly ever happens, let me have it.”

He didn’t have a free hand to disentangle himself, or to wipe the tears off his cheeks or out of his eyes, so he closed them, and lived in this moment, with the weight of his two greatest loves in his arms.

And as the wave of emotion subsided a bit, it revealed something new buried deep in his heart. A knowledge, a certainty, a decision that he didn’t have to make because it was already carved in stone, spelled out in the stars.

  
  


_I will never leave them._

  
  
  
  
  


_~~ EPILOGUE ~~_

  
  


Eliot snapped his head up at the sound of a cracking twig. It was Cleve, coming through the clearing.

“Well, it looks like I missed a hell of a party,” he said, looking around at the sleeping villagers. “What were we celebratin’?” He took in the family that was nestled under the tree. “Oh, wow, is that--”

“Shh, Cleve,” Eliot whispered. “He’s sleeping. Could you take the trap off, please?”

“Oh shit, is that why-- oh gods, yes, hold on.” He pulled a tattered book out of his pocket and read from it as he passed his hand over the trap, and it sprung open. “Oh, man, El, I’m sorry, this wasn’t for you to get caught in--”

“I know,” Eliot sighed. He took out his foot and wiggled it. “For the record, those things hurt. Could you--”

“Oh, sure, El, I got him,” Cleve said as he took the baby into his arms. “Well, aren’t you just a little sack of cuteness?” he cooed. “What’s his name?”

“Teddy. And I can't believe you're the first person he's met. Q, baby?” Eliot said softly to the sleeping man. “Q? We can go home, now, Cleve’s here.”

“Did we get you out of the trap?” Quentin mumbled, and pushed his hair out of his eyes as he sat up.

“Yes,” Eliot chuckled softly. “And into another one.”

Quentin looked at him questioningly as he let Eliot help him to his feet.

“Nevermind, baby,” Eliot said. “It’s not a trap if you want to be in it.” 

“Baby-- where’s-- oh,” Quentin said, and then he saw the bundle in Cleve’s arms, and frowned. “Here, I’ll take him.”

Cleve passed Teddy carefully to Quentin.

“Cleve, would you see to everyone?” Eliot said, slipping his shoe back on. “Wake them gently, they’re probably still drunk.”

“Y’all, I’m _really_ sorry--” the man began.

Eliot cut him off with a wave of his hand. “All is forgiven,” he said, patting his shoulder. “Good night, Cleve.” He slipped an arm around Quentin’s shoulders. “Time to go home.”

 

*

They walked out through the hole in the trees, Teddy in the arms of his Dad, with his Papa’s arm around them both, into a new life-- in which these three people would come to rely on each other in ways none of them could ever predict.

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, a hiatus. Sorry to do this to you, folks, but I have the lead in the next show and I need to focus on that for a couple of months or I won’t get another one. :) PLEASE BOOKMARK, or subscribe, or follow me on Tumblr or Twitter, because even if I get back to it sooner, the next chapter will come after Season 5 begins, and I assume will be swallowed by all the fic pouring out from our prodigious fandom. So find a good way for you to get alerts when it arrives! We’ll pick up with the Coldwater-Waughs when Teddy is three years old, and by then it will probably feel like it’s been that long for real. :) I hope you’ll be back. I promise I will be. Peaches and plums, motherfuckers.
> 
> PS I think I might redo my summary and tags so if you have suggestions leave a comment!

**Author's Note:**

> I sincerely hope you are enjoying this work. I owe it all to the people who post stories here, I've been really inspired by all of you! And I learn so much from your comments, so don't be shy. :) 
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr or Twitter under this handle for updates on posting. I'm currently on hiatus until March 2020, so bookmark or subscribe so you don't miss the return.


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